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Reproduced by permission of Messrs. I. P. Mendoza, Limited, St. James's Gallery, King Street, St. James's, S.W., 
• • ^ ^ openers of the copyright and publishers of the large plate. 


Windsor Magazine 














Absence Diaz Carreno 217 

Adeler, Max. "Mary Jones" 265 

Altering Circumstance, The Howard Somerville 478 

An Auto Bugle Song Howard Clark 240 

Ancient or Modern . . . G. H. Jalland 713 

Art of Definition, The Tom Browne lU 

Bag of Gold, The. Illustrated by F. Y. Gory Henry Harland 533 

Barr, Robert. " The Kidnapping of Rockervelt " 135 

Beaver Ways. Illustrated by Tappan Adney Frank H. Bisteen 403 

Bicester's Directorate. Illustrated by T. Walter Wilson . . . Hamilton Drummond 651 

Bird Babies. Illustrated by Leonard Buttress and from photographs . . Jerrard Grant Allen 281 

Bonds of Discipline, The. Illustrated by Victor Prout . . . . Budyard Kipling 243 

Bull, Charles Livingston, Illustrations to "The Passing of the Black Whelps " . . . . 218 

" What the Trout Stream Saw " . . . .483 

Capturing a Sperm Whale. Illustrated from photographs . . . Charles H. Kerry 692 

Castle in Spain, A Justus Miles Forman 205 

Cave-Dweller, The. Illustrated by Abbey Altson Alick Munro 537 

Change op Opinion, A Charles D. Leslie 117 

Chestnut-Seller, The. Illustrated by James Greig . - . . F. Glen Walker and G. Vane 667 

Clarke, B. A. " A Levy en Masse " 613 

"A Man to Run" 388 

''A Token of Esteem" 562 

" Minnows and Tritons " • 209 

CoALPORT Porcelain. Illustrated from photographs H. G. Archer 469 

Cobb, Thomas. " Five Years After " . . . . . . . . . • • • 660 

Compensation in Kind ' Gilbert James 600 

Concerning Mothers. Illustrated by Hilda Cowham 415 

Copping, Harold. Illustrations to " A Levy en Masse " 613 

" A Token of Esteem " 562 

** Minnows and Tritons " ....... 209 

Crockett, S. R. "Strong Mac" .... ... 70,155,289,443,507,621 

Cupboard Love Benedict Hyland 442 

Davis, Lucien, R.I. Illustrations to " A Man to Run " 388 

Drummond, Hamilton. " Bicester's Directorate " 554 

Editor's Scrap-Book, The 117, 237, 357, 477, 597, 711 

Explanation, The G. H. Jalland ^11 

Explanation, The Gilbert James 712 

Explanation, The ^. Wallis Mills 597 

Family Likeness, A Charles Pears 479 

Fiscal Policy op the Empire, The. Illustrated by diagrams . . /. Holt Schooling 429, 571 

Five Years After. Illustrated by Harold Percival . . . . . . Thomas Cobb 650 

Floor of the Pacific, The. Illustrated from photographs . . . Hon. W. E. Meehan 123 

Force of Habit S. W. Cavenagh 118 





FoEEWORD, A " Windsor " 640 

FoRMAN, Justus Miles. " A Castle in Spain " .......... 205 

Forrest, A. S. Illustrations to " The Tame Fish of Logan " 85 

From an Artist's Notebooks, Illustrated by S. E. Waller . . . Frederick Dolman 3 

Frontispieces. *' A Bunch of Blue Ribbons " S. E. Waller 2 

•'A Summer Song " Alfred Seifert 242 

" Jersey Caves " Arthur Suker 602 

"Lilies" . . . Conrad Kiesel 482 

"Summer" Henry Byland, B.I. 122 

" Supplication " Henry Byland, B.L 362 

FuRNiss, Harry. " Some Famous Ugly People " 148 

" What Some Great Men Might Have Been " '. ! 268 

Game of Stigke, The. Illustrated from photographs 

^ Capt. Hon. M. B. G. Ward, B.A., and Lieut.-Col. 0. E. Buck, B.E. 381 
Greipfenhagen, Maurice. Illustrations to " Strong Mac "... 70, 155, 289, 443, 507, 621 

Harland, Henry. " The Bag of Gold " . 

Heart op the Anarchist, The. Illustrated by Oscar Wilson 

Hints on Sea- Swimming. Illustrated from photographs 

His Natural Enemy 

His Secret ......... 

Fred M. White 

Ha7nilto7i Blair 

Arthur Gill 

A. Wallis Mills 



Jenny. Illustrated by Lucius Hitchcock Benjamin Coxe Stevenson 328 

Just in Time Fleming Williams 597 

Keene, Mr. Elmer, and his Art ..... 
Kidnapping op Rockervelt, The. Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo 
Kipling, Rudyard. " The Bonds of Discipline " 

** The Tabu Tale " .... 

Bohert Barr 


Large Order, A A. Wallis Mills 478 

Law op Change, The Gunning King 359 

Levy en Masse, A. Illustrated by Harold Copping B. A. Clarke 613 

Liberal Education, A. Illustrated by L. Raven-Hill . ..... Fred M. White 657 

Little, Clarke. " The Story of a Puncture " 313 

Little Misunderstanding, A. Illustrated by T. Walter Wilson . Spencer Leigh Hughes 107 

Local Oracle, The . . , . . ... . . . A. Wallis Mills 357 

Locked Out I " A. G. Brown 264 

Luck , , C. B. Leslie 477 

Making Matters Worse 

Making of a Flume, The. Illustrated from photographs . 
Making of a Mandoline, The. Illustrated from photographs 
Man to Run, A. Illustrated by Lucien Davis, R.I. . 
Mary Jones. Illustrated by F. L. Fitlian .... 
Matter of Initials, A. Illustrated by John Cameron 
Matter op Kindness, A. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend . 

Matter of Recognition, A 

Message in Sugar, A. Illustrated by Fred Pegram 
Minnows and Tritons. Illustrated by Harold Copping 
Momentous Motor, The. Illustrated from photographs 

'The 'Vigo's' Captains" . 91 

Money Kings of the Modern World. I. 




Morning Hymn, The 

Most Wonderful Map in the World, The. 

Concerning the New Dynasty" 
"The Rothschilds" . - . 

"Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan" . 
"Baron Shibusawa of Japan" 
" Some European Potentates " 

. C. Fell Smith 

. B. J. Power Berrey 

. B. A, Clarke 

Max Adeler 

Louis Tracy 

Fred M. White 

Will Lendon 

Elizabeth C. Pilkington 

. B. A. Clarke 

C, J. L. Clarke 

W. T, Stead 

Municipal Ambulance Work. Illustrated from photographs 
MuNRO, Alick. "The Cave-Dweller'" 

Illustrated from photographs 

Bei'tha Newcomhe 

Edouard Charles 

P. Heywood Hadfield 

Nat Baker's Passenger. Illustrated by Norman Hardy . 

Necessary Economy, A 

Nelson Room at Trafalgar, The. Illustrated from photographs 
New Khartoum, The. Illustrated from photographs . 
Newcombe, Bertha. " The Morning Hymn " . 
Not Likely! . . 

Frank B. Stockton 

. E, S. Hodgson 

. W. H. Hosking 

John Ward, F.S.A. 

A. Wallis Mills 



"Oh, Wad Some Powbb the Giftie Gie Us 1 ' 
" Old Order Changeth, The " . 
On the Safe Side .... 
One Way op Hearing- 
Only Alternative, The 
Orczy, Baroness. " Skin o' my Tooth " 
Overheard at a Fair 

G. H. Jalland 
A. S. Har trick 

Gilbert James 

Howard Somerville 

36, 227, 348, 419, 588, 701 

B. Lanchester 712 


Painter of the Sea-Goast, A . 
Passing of the Black Whelps, The. 

Pegram, Fred. Illustrations to 

' The Power of the Past ' 
Pictures it Postage-Stamps. Illustrated from photographs 
PiLKiNGTON, Elizabeth G. "A Message in Sugar '' 
Pioneer, ~ 

Adrian Margaux 603 
Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull 

Charles G. D. Roberts 218 

A Message in Sugar " 397 

Edouard Charles 

The Harold White 

The. Illustrated by L. Gampbell Taylor ...... Jessie Pope 

*' A Perfume Memory " ......... Venita Seibert 

"A Song" . Louise Mack 

"A Song" . . . . . . . . . . . . W. J. Lancaster 

" A Summer Letter " . . . . . . . . Martha Gilbert Dickhison 

" A Withered Rose " C. A. Mitchell 

" A Winter Night " Clintoii ScoUard 

"An Appeal" ........... Jessie Pope 

" Dirge " Clifford Chase 

" Hats " . . . . . . . . . . . Florence Wilkinson 

" Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas " ....... Howel Scratton 

" In an Iris Meadow " .......... Bliss Carman 

" Lines during London Sunshine " ....... Victor Plarr 

" Love in' Disguise " . . . . . . . . Dora Sigerson Shorter 

" Old Correspondence " ......... Victor Plarr 

" Priscilla at the Play " ......... George Tag gar t 

" Sylvia's Rose " ........... C. A. Mitchell 

" The Backwards Road " . . . . . . . . Florence Wilkinson 

"The Gifts" Sharlot M. Hall 

"The Only Way" Theodosia Garrison 

" The Portents " Mabel Westrup 

" The Secret Playmate " . , . . , . . Josephine Dodge Daskam 

" The Shrine " Ernest Neal Lyon 

" The Sleepy Song " , . . . . . . „. . Josephine Dodge Daskam 

" The Way of the World " Florence Wilkinson 

" The Wind " L. M. Montgomery 

"Things" • . . F lenience Wilkinson 

" Two Dwellings " .......... Emery Pottle 

Point op View, The Gunning King 

Portraits — While You Wait. Illustrated by Arthur Buckland .... Ethel Turner 
Power of the Past, The. Illustrated by Fred Pegram . . - . . . Edith Bickert 

Prout, Victor. Illustrations to " The Bonds of Discipline " 

" The ' Vigo's ' Captains " 91 

Provoking Belinda Florence Wilkhison All 


Baven-Hill, L. Illustrations to ' 

Requiescat in Pieces 

Room for Doubt 

RYLA.ND, Henry. "Summer" 

" Supplication " 

A Liberal Education ' 
The Tabu Tale " . 

Sea Maid, The 

Silence Broken, The. Illustrated by Frances Ewan . 
" Skin o' my Tooth." I. — " The Murder in Saltashe Woods 
II. — "The Case of the Polish Prince " 
III.—" The Case of Major Gibson " 
IV.—" The Dufaeld Peerage Case " 

V. — " The Case of Mrs. Norris " 
VI.—" The Murton-Braby Murder " 
Sleepy Song, The. Illustrated by B. Griswold . 
Some Famous Ugly People. Illustrated by the Author 
Stead, W. T. " The Money Kings of the Modern World " 
Stockton, Frank R. " Nat Baker's Passenger " . 
Story of a Puncture, The. Illustrated by Oscar Wilson 
Strong Mac. Illustrated by Maurice Greifienhagen . 

. 667 

. 363 

A. E. Parsons 600 

A. Wallis Mills 711 

. 122 

. 362 

A. L. Boivley 

Ethel Turner 

Baroness Orczy 

Josephine Dodge Daskam 
, Harry Furniss 
. 30, 175, 319, 372, 


Clarke Little 
Crockett 70, 155, 289, 443, 507, 





Submarine Strategy. Illustrated by H. Seppings Wright ..... Fred Whishaw 191 

Surgery of Light, The. Illustrated from photographs .... Cleveland Moffeti 63 

Sword op Damocles, The Ounning King 699 

Tabu Tale, The. Illustrated by L. Raven-Hill Budyard Kipling 363 

Tame Fish of Logan, The. Illustrated by A. S. Forrest . . . . . S. B. Lewison 85 

Terrible Threat, A . . G. H. Jalland 360 

Token of Esteem, A. Illustrated by Harold Copping . . . . . B. A. Clarke 662 

TowNSEND, F. H. Illustrations to " A Matter of Kindness" . 19 

Tracy, Louis. "A Matter of Initials" 493 

Transfer of Tompkins's Ghost, The. Illustrated by Henry Sandham . . Albert Lee 409 

Turner, Ethel. *' Portraits — While You Wait " ......... 46 

''The Silence Broken" . . 671 


Unanswerable .%............ E. Lander 120 

Unanswerabl*e, The Arthur Gill 238 

" Vigo's " Captains, The. Illustrated by Victor Prout .... 
Viking of the East, A. Illustrated by Lester Ralph, and from photographs 

Alick Munro 
H. S. Canfield 


Waiting for the Fishing Fleet . . . . . . . . . D. A. C. Artz 147 

Waller, S. E. "A Bunch of Blue Ribbons" 2 

Ward, John. "The New Khartoum" 96 

What I Think About Girls ......... Gilbert Stanhope 357 

What Some Great Men Might Have Been. Illustrated by the Author . . Harry Furniss 258 

What the Trout Stream Saw. Illustrated by Chas. Livingston Bull Willia77i Davenport Hulbert 483 

Whishaw, Fred. "Submarine Strategy" . 191 

White, Fred M. " A Liberal Education " 657 

"A Matter of Kindness" 19 

" The Heart of an Anarchist " . . . . . . . . . 468 

Wilson, Oscar. Illustrations to " Skin o' my Tooth "... 36, 227, 348, 419, 688, 701 

"The Heart of the Anarchist" 468 

" The Story of a Puncture " 313 

Wilson, T. Walter. Illustrations to "A Little Misunderstanding" 107 

"Bicester's Directorate" ....... 564 

Winter Meeting, A . . . . Madeline Bridges 711 

" World Went Very Well Then 1 The " G. P. Jacomb-Hood 387 

Wright, H. Seppings. Illustrations to " Submarine Strategy " 191 

Young Idea Again, The .......... Malcolm Patterson 480 






SOME three years ago the favourite 
artist, Mr. S. E. Waller, was " inter- 
viewed," in the journaUstic sense of 
the term, on behalf of the Windsor Maga- 
zine, but the subject of his extraordinarily 
prolitic life-work then far exceeded, as it 
now more than ever exceeds, the limits of a 
single magazine article, and it was then 
determined to plan a second rpvue of the 

Of Mr. Waller's Gloucestershire up- 
bringing, in the midst of a country rich in 
venerable ancestral homes and the traditions 
that cling to them, some account has already 
been given in the Windsor Magazine. 
From this upbringing, as was then explained, 
the painter's mind was bent in the direction 
of old English life, altliough the life he for 
the most part depicts is much less old than 


"You are hereb}^ required and directed to repair immediately on board His Majesty's ship Eiiryalns, and take 
upon you the charge and do the duty of midshipman ; being obedient unto all such orders and directicms as you 
shall JFrom time to time receive from the captain of the said ship, or any other of your superior officers of His 
Majesty's service, and for so doing this shall be your order. 

"Given on board the Victory, at Spithead, 15th Day of September, 1805." 

" (Signed) Np:lson & Bronte." 

Reproduced by permission of Messrs. Dowdeswell and Dowdeswells, TAmited, New Bond Street, W., owners of the 
copyright and jmbfishers of the large plate. 

subject at an early date. Accordingly I but 
lately spent a morniiiir with him in his 
studio at Haverstock Hill, looking through 
sketches and prints, and rummaging among 
notebooks relating to his work as an artist. 
The notebooks he gladly placed at my dis- 
posal ; and looking through them, after my 
desultory talk with Mr. Waller, one gleans 
some interesting facts and anecdotes of his 
exceptionally busy life as a painter of 

June, 1903. 

the houses which form such charming back- 
grounds in his pictures. Inspiration, doubtless, 
counts for much in an artistic purpose of 
this kind, but in Mr. Waller's case the 
inspiration has been accompanied by pains- 
taking method and a careful workmanship 
of which most people, who constantly see 
reproductions of his pictures in the print- 
shops, can have but little suspicion. 

Take the horses, for instance, which figure 
so admirably in many of Mr. Waller's 
3 B 2 


pictures. Some of the most distinguished 
painters, exceedingly able in presenting land- 
scape or the human figure, have been quite 
unequal to the task of painting a lio-rse and 
other large quadrupeds, and in some cases 
this has led to the collaboration of an animal 
painter. Some pages in one of Mr. Waller's 
notebooks were filled with extracts, ilkistrated 
by carefully drawn diagrams, from a scientific 
work on the anatomy and physiology of the 


Reproduced hy permission of Messis. Doivdeswell and Ikmd^ swells. Limited, 

New Bond St) eat, W., owners of the copyright and publishers of the large 


horse, clearly indicating the study which the 
artist, at one time or another, had given to 
the subject. For every horse he has painted, 
it seems, Mr. Waller has made a drawing 
from the living animal, and he has invariably 
drawn the complete horse, though only a 
small portion of it may be actually visible 
in the picture. The artist was led to adopt 
this very conscientions method of work 
because exj)erience has shown him that a 

horse drawn only in part scarcely ever stood 
quite true to Nature. 

When this has been at all possible, Mr. 
Waller has preferred to paint his horses into 
a picture on the easel direct from Nature. In 
his enthusiasm for this object he has some- 
times had canvas, easel, paint-box, etc., 
kicked across a stable-yard, and on one 
occasion he liimself had two of his ribs 
broken. In painting the chestnut horse of 
" The Day of Eeckoning," a co7i- 
tretemps occurred which might 
have had even more serious 
results. Mr. Waller had the ani- 
mal — a beautiful, docile ci'eature 
— standing in his London garden, 
in charge of a groom from the 
livery-stable where it had been 
hired. In the midst of his work 
a thunderstorm suddenly oc- 
curred, and terribly frightened 
his model. After one or two 
roars and flashes, she was teri'or- 
stricken, rushing wildly about the 
garden, over the flower-beds and 
shrubs. The groom stuck to the 
bridle, and the artist went to his 
assistance, but their united efforts 
were of no avail. The bridle 
broke, and the horse ruslied 
even more furiously around the 
garden, which was enclosed by a 
seven-feet wall. For tw^o hours, 
until the storm had ceased, this 
went on, both the artist and the 
groom, at some risk to their 
lives, several times intervening 
between the animal and the wall 
when she was about to attempt 
to jump it. During the storm, 
Mr. A¥aller's house was struck by 
lightning, and the horse — the 
owner declared— never recovered 
from the shock it gave her. 

The painting of a horse is, of 
course, very seldom attended by 
such excitement as this. But 
its difficulties are always con- 
siderable, and Mr. AYaller has 
cultivated inexhaustible patience in com- 
posing and finishing some of the pictures in 
which horses have so prominent and pleasing 
a part. He has had to get each horse in 
both the right attitude and the right light ; 
very often the attitude has been right and 
the light wrong, or the light right and the 
attitude wrong, and this fatal circumstance 
has often compelled him to do his work all 
Nor is it in time alone that his 


Reproduced by permission of Messrs. Dowdesiuell and DowdesweHs, Limited, New Bond Street, W., owners of the 
copyright and publishers of the large plate. 

L- ■::■:.,.. 


At>vfl|^/ 4 


Reproduced by permission of Messrs. Dowdeswell and Dowdesvjells, Limited, Xew Bond Street, W., owners of the 
covyright and publishers of the large plate. 


horses have been expensive. As a rule — 
althongli friends have been generous -Mr. 
Waller has had to hire them, and really 
good animals, such as had to be put into 
his pictures, are a most expensive kind of 
model. The livery-stable bill for " One- 
and-Twenty," for example, in which picture 
there are seven horses, amounted to £25, as 
compared with £35 for all the other models 
— of men, women, and dogs. 

Deer have figured only less than horses in 

found it very desirable to make a study of a 
fawn, but found it impossible to get near 
enough to one for the purpose. One of the 
county gentlemen at length heard of his 
dilemma, and offered, if the artist would 
drive over to his place, to get his keeper to 
catch a fawn and place it at Mr. Waller's 
disposal for a few hours. On arriving at the 
deer-park on the appointed day, Mr. Waller 
met the keeper, accompanied by half-a-dozen 
men carrying nets with which to catch the 


Reproduced by permission of Messrs. B. Brooks and Sons, The Portland Galleries, Great Portland Street, W., owners 
of the copyright and publishers of the large plate. 

JMr. Waller's pictures. One is reminded of 
the fact by more than one pair of antlers 
adorning the walls of his studio. The 
antlers of the deer Mr. Waller lias been able 
to paint there at bis ease, but the grace of 
their movements has been transferred to his 
canvas only after considerable difficulty. 
For one thing, Mr. Waller, bein^ a humani- 
tarian, has always hated the idea of inflicting 
pain in any way upon these sensitive creatures. 
Mr. Waller once, when staying in the country, 

fawn. For an hour or two the party tramped 
about, continually stretching the nets across 
likely spots, the nets being so contrived that 
a fawn running against them would get 
entangled in their meshes. When the nets 
w^ere fixed in position, fawns were driven out 
from the surrounding bracken, but for a 
long time they all succeeded in jumping 
over the nets. At last, when Mr. Waller 
w^as getting very hot and tired, a fawn less 
agile than its fellows, but in all other respects 



an example of its species, was caught. It 
was carried to the enclosed yard in which 
the artist was to paint it. But the creature 
seemed so terror-stricken that it was a long 
time before he could get to work, and just as 
Mr. Waller was about to begin, its mother 
approached the house, setting up a beseeching 


wail, to which the little one made piteous 
answer. This was too much for the painter 
altogether, and after a final struggle with his 
feelings, he opened the yard-gate and let the 
fawn go. 

Many a time Mr. Waller has followed deer 
for miles all day long in order to make 

sketches of characteristic attitudes. Theses 
sketches have been most useful in the studio. 
With their help he has been able to paint 
deer in a picture from the dead animals, 
although this is a practice which has called 
for great caution from the painter. Unless 
the living attitude has been well "caught " 
in the sketch, paint- 
ing from the dead 
animal will result 
in a w^ant of life 
and movement 
about the picture. 

The dogs have, 
of course, given 
Mr. Waller much 
less trouble. 
Friends have been 
kind in lending 
their animals, when 
these were at all out 
of the ordinary. 
The fox-liounds in 
"The Day of Reck- 
onings—so sugges- 
tive of the sporting 
tastes which had 
helped to bring 
about the young 
man's ruin — were 
jjainted, for ex- 
ample, from the 
kennels of the Cots- 
wold Hunt. As a 
rule, however, Mr. 
Waller has obtained 
the loan of his 
canine sitters at so 
nuich per day from 
the dog-fanciers of 
Seven Dials, with 
whom, as they 
brought them to 
and from the studio, 
sometimes superin- 
tending their poses 
when they were at 
all fractious with a 
stranger, Mr. Waller 
in the course of his 
life has obtained a 
peculiarly intimate 
acquaintance. Of more than one of -the 
fraternity the artist has curious stories to 
tell ; but as they do not bear directly upon 
the subject of art, I will not reproduce them 

In regard to the human models for his 
pictures, Mr. Waller's experiences somewhat 



This picture aptly illustrates the artist's infinite capacity for takinfj^ pains with his own work, for a different 
version of it appeared as frontispiece to a former Christmas Number of the Windsor Magazine. Yet even after 
it hnd pleased a vast circle of admirers in that form, the artist reworked it to its present scheme. 

Reproduced by permusion of Messrs. B. Brooks and Sons, The Portland Galleries, Great Portland Street, W., owners 
of the copyright and pubJishei's of the large plate. 



resemble those of artists generally. Kelatives 
and friends have been of service ; indeed, his 
best heads, he declares, have been painted 
from amatenr sitters. Bnt Mr. Waller had 
not the courage or the callousness to require 
from them long-sustained poses, and after 
uiakiug a study for the head, he has fallen 
back upon professionals for the rest of the 
figure and the details of the costume, 
although in his younger days, when painting 
subjects with a large dramatis personm^ this 
course subjected his purse to a severe strain. 
Soiuetimes it has been most difficult to get 
exactly the right mo^lel to fit his conception 
of the subject, even in his later years, when 
this pecuniary consideration had not the 
same weight. 

There are one or two anecdotes in Mr. 
Waller's notebooks illustrating this. One of 
his more important pictures w^as quite at a 
standstill, owing to the want of a suitable 
model for the principal girl figure. He had 
been working all day with a professional 
model to no good purpose, so in despair he 
dismissed her, threw down his brushes, and 

proceeded to make a business call in the 
West End. Looking at a photographer's 
window in Oxford Street for a few moments, 
he saw reflected in the glass, just as he w^as 
about to turn away, the face of a girl who 
was just the ideal of his picture. She had 
stopped to look at some portraits, and, 
although somewhat poorly dressed, would 
obviously feel herself insulted by the ad- 
vances of a stranger unless they were 
promptly and frankly explained. Mr. Waller, 
in desperation, pulled out his card-case, and 
handing her a card, with many apologies, 
explained that he was an artist, who had been 
frustrated in his search for a professional 
model suitable to a picture he was painting, 
and now saw in her face and figure just what 
he wanted, if she would allow him to paint 
them. After some further talk, terms were 
arranged, and next day she began giving 
Mr. Waller sittings. One or two of his 
artist-friends saw her in his studio, and, 
much struck by her appearance, persuaded 
her to give them sittings likewise. Several 
years later, Mr. Waller got into talk with a 


From the original picture in the possession of Lt.-Col. Fopner. Reproduced by permissun of Messrs. B. Bro(>ks and Sons, 
The Portland Galleries, Great Portland Street, W., owners of the copyright and publishers of the large plate. 




Reproduced from a photograph hi/ J. B. Boston, bj/ permissinn of Mr. W. W. Sampson, 67, Warder Street, W. 
owner of the cojyyright and publisher of the large plate. 

yonu^ man in a train, who, on ascertaining: 
tliat his fellow-passeno^er was an artist, asked 
him if he knew " S. E. Waller." Mr. AYaller 
eventnally revealed his identity, but before 
doing so he had discovered that the young 
man wished to thank the artist mentioned for 
having been a friend in need to the lady who 
was now his wife. At the time of their 
chance meeting in Oxford Street, she scarcely 
knew where to turn for the next meal : but 
the employment Mr. Waller had been instru- 
mental in procuring for her had provided a 
comfortable livelihood up to the time of her 

When painting " Romulus, Remus, and 
the Wolf," Mr. W^aller spent an hour or two 
one evening, under the guidance of a friendly 
Italian, in exploring the slums of " Little 
Italy," at Hatton Garden. He was looking 
for an Italian baby to put into the picture, 
and before finding the right model, his quest 
brought into view myriads of infants, sleep- 
ing in rows amidst all kinds of surroundings, 
whose vocation it was in the daytime to 
accompany the organs on their rounds. 

Their howling, as they were awakened, 
haunted Mr. Waller's dreams for night's — 
and, after all, the model was not a success. 

Costumes in Mr. AYaller's pictures are 
almost as important as the figures, and he 
has had to spend quite a small fortune in 
hiring and buying costumes of undoubted 
accuracy. A much pleasanter reminiscence 
in his notebooks arises out of this question 
of clothes. Mr. Waller was painting in 
Gloucestershire "The Morning of Agin- 
court." His model was a young man, 
mounted on a big horse, and clad in armour 
from head to foot. Suddenly a village boy 
put his head above the palings, and almost 
as suddenly witlidrew with a scared face. 
The little fellow, who had possibly con- 
templated a raid on the fruit trees, slid 
down the palings again into tlie road and 
ran back to the village, shrieking that he 

had seen an "aw-ful summat in 's 

garden." Mr. Waller afterwards had a 
little chat with him about Henry the Fifth 
and his gallant knights. 

" The last thing an artist must consider is 





Reproduced from a photograph by J. B, Boston, by permission of 
Street, W., owner of the aqryright and publisher 

plijsical difficulty when in pursuit of truth." 
This has been one of the working maxims of 
Mr. A\^aller's life. The pains he has taken 
to get the right models for tlie men, women, 
and animals in his pictures have been equally 
applied to their every detail. He has left it 
on record, for example, liow the wonderful 
footprints in tlie snow of " The Empty 
Saddle " were obtained : " I waited for the 
first fall of snow, had two horses led across 
the lawn, got some boards to stand on, and 
wrapping myself up as warmly as I could, 
pain.ted the whole day in the bitter wind, 
making a careful study of the impressions. 

going into the house 
about every hour to 
thaw." For his pic- 
ture of "One-and- 
Twenty," Mr. Waller 
went to Notting- 
ham, in order to 
study Wollaton Hall, 
and then to Wales, 
to make sketches of 
a certain park which 
was his ideal for the 
picture. Finding 
that Wollaton Hall 
would take him a 
long time, getting 
the perspective in 
true relationship to 
the scale, and 
anxious, ueverthe- 
less, to run no risk 
of even slight in- 
accuracy, Mr. Waller 
obtained the profes- 
sional assistaiKje of 
an architect in deal- 
ing with the point. 
He spent three wx^eks 
at Kirby, making 
studies of the old 
house for "The Day 
of Reckoning"; and 
for the coach in 
Thankfully Re- 
ceived " bethought 
himself of Napo- 
leon's equipage at 
''Madame Tus- 
saud's," which with 
Mr.Tussaud's kindly 
acquiescence and a 
little alteration in 
the drawing brought 
a long quest to a 
successful end. For " The Morning of 
Agincourt" Mr. Waller made prolonged 
research in the libraries of the College of 
Arms and the British Museum, and painted 
the backgi'ound in France. 

From what sources has Mr. Waller ob- 
tained the ideas for his numerous pictures ? 
lu other words, liow do his subjects come to 
him ? The question is an inevitable one, 
which must have often been put to Mr. 
Waller. " Accidents ; pure accidents," he 
would reply, " have mostly given rise to my 
pictures." A tj:roup of people in a village 
street, a strayed sheep, an empty house, some 


W. Sampson, 67, War dour 

Mr. ^\ 

of the large plate. 

'^A^AvXi^ .-sk.*.„.w»,^W 

L^. .„,.*,... *^«.^^^ 


Reproduced by permission of Messrs. B. Brooks and Sons, The Portland Galleries. Great Portland Street, W., 
of the copyright and publishers of the large plate. 









Reproduced by permission of Messrs. B. Brooks and Sons, The Portland Galleries, Great Portland Street, M\ 
of the copyright and publishers of the large plate. 

words of poetry, or a few bars of music " — 
either one or other of these things has 
started a line of thought, which has had its 
eventual result in a picture. Some of his 
pictures have naturally followed others. 
Thus " The Huntsman's Courtship " had its 
sequel in " The Huntsman's Marriage," and 
this, in its turn, was succeeded by "In his 
Father's Footsteps." 

One or two of Mr. Waller's works can be 

traced to a distinct, concrete origin. A 
picture mentioned above, " Contributions 
Thankfully Received," together with " In 
the Good Old Times," was the fulfilment 
of a long-settled purpose, due to the stories 
of a famous gang of Gloucestershire high- 
waymen which Mr. Waller had heard in his 
boyhood. Their exploits he has narrated 
in the Windsor Magazine. The fact that 
they occurred in and about the village where 



his early years were spent impressed them 
witli extraordinary clearness on the painter's 

"The Day of Reckoning" — perhaps the 
best known of all Mr. Waller's well-known 
works— had its genesis in a scene he had 
witnessed in Gloucestershire a year or two 
before it wap painted in 1888. This was the 
annual ram sale at a large farm. This 
brought back to his mind an auction sale at 
which he had been present as a boy of 
thirteen. He started to paint the picture 
from impressions of both scenes in his mind 

by seeing Kirby House, to which he was in- 
troduced as the sequel of a chance meeting 
with a clergyman at a country table dliote. 

" I was" staying at Rockingham," Mr. 
Waller says, in relating the incident, " and 
one night at dinner a friendly clergyman 
who sat next me inquired if I had seen 
Kirby, as he was sure it would suit me for a 
background. I said ' No,' and rather threw 
cold water on his suggestion that he should 
drive me there next day, for I have frequently 
been sent long expeditions by well-meaning 
friends, only to find my time entirely wasted. 

% ^^ ^ mm- ■ , ^-, 

y^^^ ' 


Reproiuced from a photograph by J. B. Boston, J)y permission of Mr. W. W. Sampson, 6t, VVarduur Street, IV., 
owner of the copyright and publisher of the large plate. 

— compulsory sale, grief of occupants, 
trampled lawh, straw on drive from packing- 
cases, empty bottles, etc. It was to be 
entitled "The Day of Reckoning." Some 
of the figures in the picture, however, 
served for another work which gave Mr. 
Waller's career a decided impetus — the 
work aptly called " Success," purchased by 
Sir Henry Tate for £800, and now hang- 
ing in the National Gallery of British Art, 
which wn'll always be associated with his 
name. Mr. Waller was led to start afresh 
the painting of "The Day of Reckoning" 

However, yielding to his persuasion, the 
following day I was shown one of the most 
interesting and picturesque domestic build- 
ings I had ever seen. I suppose it would 
be called Tudor for the most part ; for though 
John Thorpe was the architect of the greater 
part, Inigo Jones had a considerable share 
in the later work. It is of immense extent, 
and also its ruin is on a similar scale. As I 
walked into the second quadrangle, I saw 
horses before the door ; the old subject sprang 
up rejuvenated, and ' The Day of Reckon- 
ing ' became a living thing. 

O ^ 



" Of course, the ruined man would sell his 
horses and dogs, his wife would grievx% the 
vulgar crowd would attend the sale and 
desecrate the place— all was quite plain now. 
It only wanted painting." 

Any reader w^ho is familiar with Kirby 
House has probably notice! a serious dis- 
crepancy between the real building and the 
representation given of it in Mr. Waller's 
picture, the entrance-porch in the latter 
being much larger than in the former. This 
is due to an expedient which the painter, as 
he explains, had to adopt in order to over- 
come difficulties that unavoidably arose from 
the limitations of the canvas : — 

" The size and scale of Kirby alarmed me. 
All architecture used • as backgmund to 
figures needs careful management, as if made 
mu A\ of, one needs a huge canvas, and the 
tigures come very small and are consequently 
sacriticed. If the figures are made as im- 
portant as they should be, the danger is that 
the architecture will be like a doll's house. 
In order to get a small portion of Kirby in . 
front to full scale with the figures, whil.-^t 
showing the rest of the building in per- 
spective, I had to extend the porch fully, 
twenty feet. The only otlier way of over- 
coming my difficulty would have been ihe 
use of a narrower canvas, but thi^' would 
have lost me the sky and left the spectator 
without the slightest idea of the height of 
the mansion. As it w^as, I could put a man 
and woman right in front of the building, 
painted to scale, without sacrificing any of 
the architectural effect." 

These are somewhat technical points. 
There is a more general interest in w^hat 
Mr. Waller has to tell us concerning the prin- 
cipal figures in the picture. The man, in the 
characteristic attitude of indifference born 
of despair, with hands in pockets and feet 
apart, was e^isily painted. But when it was 
finished, the head did not satisfy Mr. Waller ; 
it was painted out and he started on a search 
for a more satisfactory model. It was some 
time before he found just wiiat he w,anted 
—a gentlemanly "private" at the Artillery 

Barracks whose soured expression probably 
came from same sharp reveise in foriune. 

*' The Bay of Beckoning " was somewhat ex- 
ceptional in the length of time during which 
its central idea was taking shape in Mr. 
Waller's mind. As a rule, there has been a 
much shorter interval between the birth of 
an idea and the beginning of a picture. "As 
a rule," Mr. Waller records in his notebook, 
explaining the process his work goes through, 
"after an idea has taken root and one begins 
to make the tirstfew'little notes of composition, 
the whole tide of previous ideas, of former 
sketches, of the thousand-and-one w^ays of 
treating a subject, are let loose, to one's 
infinite confusion. The mind becomes like 
the cook's stock-pot, filled with material, and 
every after process with me consists, like the 
cook's, in boilimr down and flavouring. The 
five or six little blots or sketches are crowded 
and unwieldy to a degree ; but as I begin to 
see my way with the composition and take 
up the charcoal to make a fair-sized drawing, 
the number of figures is reduced considerably, 
the background becomes simple, and the 
whole thing more of a unit. Sometimes 
this process is a very quick one, and nothing 
l^n be more delightful than to find your 
o))jects drop into their places naturally and 
look > accidental yet inevitable; and the 
fewer there are of them, the better, as a 
rule, will be yourj-picture, for I believe the 
greatest of all the virtues is simplicity." 

■ Although chance has had its part in 
Mr* Waller's career, I think I have made it 
clear that in his case tireless industry 
and unflagging energy have had a larger 
share. It is truly marvellous that with 
such conscientious methods of work as I 
have here indicated, an artist who has only 
just turned fifty should have been able to 
produce such a number of large pictures with 
so little variation in their excellence. As 
regards more recent years, the explanation is 
to be. found, it may be feared, in persistent 
overwork that lately resulted in a long illness, 
from which we hope Mr. Waller may now 
make a steady recovery, f t 

Frederick Dolman. 



J'N Saturday afternoons 
there was peace in 
the Valley of Sweet 
Waters. Then the 
click and clack of 
pick and drill ceased, 
the grimy gangs 
went home and 
washed themselves, 
for the most part 
openly bewailing the 
fact that there were no licensed premises 
within five miles of the huge waterworks — 
works where eight thousand men were 
slaving and moiling to bring the glittering 
liquid pure across the Midlands. There was 
the canteen, of course, but the canteen was 
conducted upon narrow-minded lines, and 
with an abbreviated notion of the proper 
amount of intoxicating liquor requisite to 
the capacity of a self-respecting navvy. But 
there were ways of evading the authorities, 
as the said authorities sadly allowed. 

The canteen was closed till dusk on Satur- 
day, and thus eight thousand men, dotted in 
huts all along the lovely valley, were thrown 
upon their own resources. They played 
cricket with some vigour, they bathed in the 
mountain pools, there were foot races and 
long training walks — rambles frequently 
fatal to various poultry rambling thought- 
lessly beyond the confines of the farmyards. 
Rabbits, too, were getting scarce, and Sir 
Myles Llangaren protested against the slaying 
of pheasants in August. He protested, 
too, against the poaching in Upper Guilt 
Brook, but tbis in a minor degree, seeing 
that the trout were small, albeit of excellent 

As a matter of fact, three banksmen were 
poaching up above Guilt Bridge now. Two 
of them sat smoking and watching a third, 
who, prone on his stomach, was doing some- 
thing in the stream with the aid of a stick 
and a fine copper wire. The thing looks 
impossible and absurdly insufficient, but 
there the captured fish lay. 

" Got 'im," the fisherman grunted, lifting 

* Copyright, 1903, by Ward, Lock and Co., Limited, 
in the United States of A.uerica. 

out a fat fish some six ounces in weight. " I 
dines at eight to-night in a dicky and black 
tie. Sort of family affair." 

The other men laughed internally. The 
speaker was a short, powerful man, with 
glittering black eyes and dark snaky hair 
that had earned him the title of " Gipsy." 
The other two men were known as " Nobby " 
and " Dandy Dick," the latter reminiscent 
of an old playbill and of the fact that he 
usually wore a tie and had his hair with that 
pleasing plastered curl over the forehead 
which is called a Newgate fringe. Dandy 
also had a great, if vague, reputation for 
gallantry of a certain order. 

As they sat there, another man came 
swinging up the valley. He also was of the 
navvy type, clean-limbed, with a suggestion 
of having seen service about him. He was 
dressed in black and wore a heavy pilot-coat, 
despite the heat of the day. He nodded 
none too familiarly. 

" How do ? " Gipsy shouted. The " How 
do ? " of a navvy can be made hearty or ex- 
ceedingly offensive, as the case may be. 
With the accent derisive on the first syllable 
it lends itself to quarrel in the easiest manner 
possible. " How do ? " 

The other passed on without any personal 
allusion to Gipsy's facial disadvantages, a 
fact that so astonished Nobby that he dropped 
his pipe and stared open-mouthed after the 
retreating figure. 

" 'Oo's'e ?" he asked. "Call hisself a man ! 
If Gipsy 'd hollered arter me like that, Td ha' 
knocked his bloomin' 'ead orf. Straight." 

Gipsy rolled over on his back in exquisite 
enjoyment. He belonged to the order of 
man who laughs at everything. Nobby's 
seriousness was a source of constant amuse- 
ment to him. 

"Calls hisself James Burton," he ex- 
plained. " Ganger over Dandy's lot." 

" It's a lie," Nobby said with emotion. 
" It's one of your lies, Gipsy." 

"It ain't," Dandy struck in with equal 
politeness. " It's true. 'E's been about 'ere 
six weeks. Used to be a corporal in the 
Army, they say. No use, neither. Don't 
swear — can't, in fact. And when he wants 
anything, says ' Please.' " 




*' Garn," Nobby said with withering con- 
tempt. " Ou'er gettin' at ? " 

Dandj reiterated his previous assertion, 
garnished with language that left no possible 
doubt of his absolute sincerity. Nobby had 
ceased to smoke for the moment. Mundane 
pleasures were as nothing in the contem- 
plation of this phenomenon. 

" Can't swear and says ' Please,' " he mur- 
murei. " ""Ow does 'e get the work done ? " 

" 'E's after old Cocky Benwell's girl," said 
Gipsy, with meaning. He glanced^at Dandy 
as he spoke. The latter winced ever so 

"So I'm told," he said loftily. "But 
Lor' ! what's the use ? No chancer there." 

Gipsy returned t3 the attack obliquely. 

" I dunno," he said, with an air of pro- 
found philosophy. " Women's funny crea- 
tures. Goes in for flowers and all them 

"Kate Benwell's very fond of flowers," 
said Dandy thoughtfully, " specially vi'lets. 
Stinking, I call 'em. 'Ad a bunch when I 
met 'er last night." 

" Burton's got some fine vi'leti in his 
cottage garden," Gipsy observed. " Grows 
'em under a frame in the cottage what he 
took from that Welshy bloke what's gone to 
Talgarth to live. Big blue Juns with long 
storks, exactly the same as that Kate Ben well 
was wearin' in her boosum last night." 

" I'd hke to punch Burton's 'ead ! " Dandy 
exclaimed with sudden passion. 

Gipsy winked at himself with silent 
ecstasy. Nobby sucked at his pipe, regard- 
ing the sky with a rapt, stolid gaze. The 
humour of the situation wai absolutely lost 
upon him, as the bright-eyed little man w^as 
perfectly well aware. His mental digestion 
was still seriously pained over the ganger who 
couldn't swear and said " Please " to his men. 

" They'll be making me a ganger next," 
he said parenthetically. Nobody responded, 
the black-eyed man was waiting for develop- 

Dandy broke out suddenly : "If a girl 
wants vi'lets," he said defiantly, " why, there's 
no reason why she shouldn't 'ave vi'lets. 
Come to think of it, they ain't much more 
offensive than bacca is to a pore bloke who 
can't stand smoke." 

" Burton's are real beauties," said Gipsy. 
" Growed in a frame out o' doors where a man 
could 'elp himself after dark." 

Dandy smiled. Gipsy's eyes conveyed 
nothing, though he began to see a pretty 
comedy opening out before his mental vision. 
Amusements were scarce in the Guilt Valley, 

and here was a fine way of adding to the 
gaiety of nations. 

" No man could swear to a vi'let," Dandy 
said sententiously. 

"Nor yet to a bunch of 'em, leaves an' 
all," Gipsy added softly. " You've got to 
put them all together and shove a bit of 
foliage round 'em." 

Dandy took no heed of this original hint 
on the subject of floral decoration. He had 
gone off on his own train of thought. 

" I dare say as other pore creatures up the 
valley — Welshies — grows vi'lets. Burton 
ain't got all the flowers in Wales, nor yet all 
the vi'lets neither. And if a man keeps them 
soi't o' things out of doors nights, be deserves 
to lose 'em." 

" Not as any of we 'ud take 'em," Gipsy 

Nobby rose slowly, after drawing a pon- 
derous silver watch from profound depths. 

Gipsy took up his poaching apparatus 
again and adjusted the fine running wire. 

" Just a few more," he said. " Where 
going. Nobby ? " 

" 'Ome," Nobby said, with deep contempt. 
" It's six o'clock." 

" Well, what o' that ? We don't often 
get a chance " 

" Chances be blowed ! " Nobby growled. 
" Ain't it just six, and the canteen has been 
opened these ten minutes ? And we wasting 
our time 'ere over a lot of silly trout as ain't 
to be named in the same day as a bloater. 
Come along." 

This appeal, being too powerful and too 
cogent to be ignored, had the desired effect, 
and the trio made their way silently and 
thirstily down the valley. 


Up to a certain time Dandy's feelings to- 
wards Miss Kate Benwell had been governed 
by a comfortable philosophy. He admired 
the girl, he had dallied with her on Sundays, 
but this had not prevented his liberal admira- 
tion of other women. He felt that as yet 
the easy swagger and the carefully oiled curl 
over his forehead ought not to be reserved 
for one of the opposite sex only. 

Now things appeared to be different. That 
the Gipsy in his insidious way had brought 
about the change for his own wicked amuse- 
ment. Dandy did nt)t dream. Come what 
may, that poor creature of a Burton wasn't 
to have Cocky Benwell's girl. Besides, her 
eyes seemed to have grown brighter and her 
cheeks more ruddy of late. Critically ex- 
amined, she was a prettier girl than Dandy 

' Fond of flowers, eh ? ' 



had imagined. At the same time, she was a 
trifle more distant and cold than of yore. This 
fact landed Dandy in philosophic deeps, as 
it has often done in the case of cleverer men. 
* * * * * 

It was Sunday afternoon, and the valley 
lay bathed in the peaceful sunlight. Out- 
side the long lanes of wooden huts, stalwart 
men in : shirt-sleeves were minding small 
groves of children. Somebody was playing 
an accordion close by. There was a sugges- 
tion of rank tobacco-smoke on the air. 
Overhead a lark poured out a flood of 
melody. The shadow of a hawk was cast 
like a moving blight across the bracken. 

A little further up the valley w^as a loose 
tangle of younger men. From the easy 
uneasiness of their attitudes they could 
only have been doing one thing. They 
were waiting for the coming of the fair, 
and their Sunday clothes troubled them 
sorely. A navvy in his working clothes is 
a fine sight, sometimes even an inspiring 
one ; but the sombre raiment of the Sabbath 
is like a blight upon him. You can't see 
the magnificent torso, the knotted length of 
arm, the hard, lean flanks — nothing but a 
bunch of humanity. 

Between two grinning, slouching lanes 
Dandy came down. He had a golf cap — 
plaid, with a huge purple and red star in 
the centre — planted at the back of his head, 
so that the glory of the plastered curl might 
not be dimmed, a handkerchief of many 
colours adorned his short bull neck, he had 
nd .collar, and his body was swathed in an 
enormous double-breasted pea-jacket many 
sizes too large for him. The moleskin 
trousers were also toe long, but a pair of straps 
round the knees obviated that difficulty. 
He carried a white paper parcel in his hand. 

Here was something for lambent wit to 
play upon. The youths ceased to chaff one 
another uneasily and with one accord turned 
upon Dandy. To flee was impossible ; silent 
contempi would only have been accepted as 
a weakness. 

" Carrj your parcel. Dandy ? " one sug- 
gested with humility. " Proud to." ■ 

Dandy turned with a smile. He was 
equal to the occasion. 

"Couldn't do it," he said. "It's a 
diamond- necklace fot the chief engineer's 
wife. And you comes of a bad stock, Daniel. 
The last time as it was my painful dooty to 
give evidence agin' your old man ^" 

A burst of strident laughter finished the 
sentence. Daniel grinned redly. 

"It's trotters," he said, "or pickles, or 

somethink of that kind. Give it a name, 

" It ain't trotters, nor cockles, nor winkles," 
Dandy said shortly. " It ain't the title-deeds 
of my new estate, and it ain't nothin' to do 
with nobody." 

A weedy youth in an amazing check suit 
collapsed on the grass in a paroxysm of 
mirth. His comrades watched with affec- 
tionate anxiety. 

" I've got it ! *' he gasped. " It's flowers, 
that's bloomin'-well what it is ! A bookay 
with Dandy's best love to Kitty Benwell. 
' Rose is red, the vi'let's blue, carnation's 
sweet, and so be you ! ' Blest if I can't 
sniff 'em ! " 

. A score of more or less blunt noses w^ere 
elevated in the air daintily. 

; " Like tripe, only more tender-like," said 
Daiiiel. ^ 

Before the roar of laughter that followed 
Dandy broke and fled. He was conscious of 
a hot, pricking sensation from head to foot. 
He would cheerfully have forfeited a week's 
wages to have preserved his secret intact. 
It would be many days before he heard the 
last of it. Many blighting retorts rose to 
his mind now that it was too late. He 
gripped the violets in his hand and shook 
them savagely. There was a wild impulse 
to hurl the offending package into Guilt 
Brook, but wiser counsels prevailed. The 
mischief was done now, and nothing could 
bring Nepenthe to the amused valley. 

The reward came presently, however. 
From a bypath between the hills a girl 
emerged — a girl with an enormous feathered 
hat and plaid shawl, a girl exceedingly red 
in the face and black as to her eyes. Poets 
and painters and such effete people would 
have demurred to the girl's high colouring ; 
another class of man would have summed 
her up as a fine w^oman. Dandy had made 
great sacrifice for her, and for the nonce in 
his eyes she was perfect. 

" Who'd a-thought of seeing you, now ? " 
he said breezily. 

" Just wdiat I was saying to myself, 
Mr. Dandy. Who, indeed ? " 

Dandy w^histled with his eyes fixed steadily 

" Going anywhere in particular ? " he 
asked carelessly, yet with caution. 
■ 5 Miss Benw^ell simpered and looked down. 
Yet her eyes flashed alert and vigorous down 
the valley as if in search of somebody. She 
tittered. Under the circumstances she 
deemed it just as well to dissemble. Then 
she smiled archly. 



" Majbe I am and maybe Fm not," she 
said archly. 

" Well, that's just what Fm going to do," 

Dandy observed. " So I'll walk part of the 

way there with you. Fond of flowers, eh ? " 

Miss Benwell remarked that she positively 

doted on flowers. 

Dandy whistled again until the corners of 
his mouth relaxed into a broad grin. 

" There's not many flowers as comes up to 
vi'lets," he said sententiously. 

Miss Benwell agreed with enthusiasm. 
They were so sweet and so modest. Also 
she had read in the Society columns of a half- 
penny novelette that they were such good 

" Especially blue 'uns," cried Dandy, 
catching her enthusiasm. 

Yes, perhaps blue violets were on the whole 
preferable to the white variety. Their per- 
fume was more pronounced and not too 
craftily subtle. All this Miss Benwell 
observed, averting her gaze most scrupu- 
lously from the paper parcel now getting 
unpleasantly warm in Dandy's powerful grip. 
As he stripped the paper away, the grin 
on his face troadened. He poked his fist 
rampantly under the girl's nose. 

" For you," he said shortly. " A bookay. 
Wear 'em next your 'eart." 

Miss Benwell couldn't have believed it. 
Anybody might have knocked her down 
with a feather. She placed the violets ten- 
derly in the anatomical region suggested by 

" They are hke some James Burton has," 
she said. 

" Had,'' Dandy corrected. Then he 
recollected himself and proceeded craftily : 
"James Burton hasn't got any vi'lets like 
them. 1 got 'em up the valley ; walked 
miles on purpose." 

" Fancy that now ! " Miss Benwell said 

"Walked my heels off almost, I did," said 
Dandy. " If James Burton, who's a poor 
creature and don't know the language — 
'ullo ! " 

The man in question stood before him. A 
man about his own build, with a pale, taci- 
turn face and an eye that looked like power. 
His glance wandered from Dandy to the 
violets. His lips were parted, as if he had 
run far. 

" You — you scoundrel ! " he said. " I beg 
your pardon, Kate." 

He turned on his heel with a slight sug- 
gestion of military salute and strode away 
up the valley. 

Miss Benwell turned pale, flushed deep 
red, and tittered. 

" Something disagreed with him," she 
laughed. " Better go this way, 'adn't we ? " 

Dandy gallantly replied that all ways were 
the same to him now. An hour or two 
later he returned to the huts with head 
erect and a sweet smile on his face. An 
acquaintance came down the road. 

" 'Ullo, Bill ! " said Dandy. " So long." 

" 'Ullo ! " the other responded. " 'Ow nice 
you look, Vi'lets ! " 

Dandy stopped, clenched his fist, swore 
with fluency, and passed on.. 


Gipsy watched the progress of aff^airs from 
under his shrewd brows. He had engineered 
the whole business for his own amusement, 
and on the whole it was coming out beyond 
his most sanguine expectations. In towns 
Gipsy was a regular theatrical Saturday 
nighter, and under happier educational 
advantages might have blossomed into a 
dramatist. His first act had been eminently 
successful ; the whole rugged community 
were laughing at Dandy, who, however, had 
his consolation in the fact that he had put 
Burton's nose out of joint for all time. 

Still, all great victories have their draw- 
backs. For instance, it was by no means 
pleasant to be sniffed at by everybody. The 
boys were all whistling one air now, and on 
Dandy innocently asking the name, he was 
greeted with a chorus of " Sweet Yiolets." 
This tune he traced to Gipsy, still without 
suspicion of his friend's Ijona- des. 

" Why did you go for to do it ? " he 
asked reproachfully. 

They were all at dinner, with basins and 
tins between their knees, k little way off 
Ganger Burton was smoking in sullen 
silence. Though his vocabulary was mean 
and limited during the last day or two, there 
was an air about him that Dandy by no 
means liked. 

" I never thought about you," the Gipsy 
said feelingly. " I was leading up to a joke. 
They tell me they was fine vi'lets that you 
gave to Kitty Benwell." 

" No finer grown in the valley," Dandy 
responded shortly. 

" And they say Burton was no end took, 
too, when you done him so fine." Dandy 
quivered. '" More vi'lets where those others 
come from, I suppose ? " 

" Lots, if you go about getting them at 
nig in the proper way." 

"" Then I'll show you how you can put 



the joke on to Burton. You go and Innj 
a lot more of them flowers, and bring 'em 
down 'ere early on the ground in the mornin' 
afore Burton gets 'ere. Let every man 
stick two or three in his 'at or button-'ole, 
and there you are ! See, old pal ? " 

To do him justice. Dandy "saw" imme- 
diately. The " whole village bad divined 
exactly what was going on, and if this thing 
were done, every shred of ridicule would be 
shifted from Dandy's shoulders to those of 

** Most likely drive him out of tl^ shop," 
Dandy said joyfully. 

" l)o him brown altogether," the Gipsy 
responded. " If you ain't got the pluck to 
do it at the last minute, I'll show you a 
way " 

" Ain't got the pluck ! You see. Lor' ! 
I'm laughing at it now." 

So was the Gipsy. Only a close observer 
might have had a shrewd suspicion that he 
was laughing at his companion at the same 
time. Tlien he winked darkly and went his 

Not one of tlie gang needed to be told 
the next morning that something was in the 
air. They were going to have some fun with 
their deservedly unpopular ganger, and that 
sufficed for them. Tlierefore when Dandy 
proffered all and several a few violets each 
next morning, the gift was accepted with a 
solemnity worthy of the occasion. Alto- 
gether it was a strange and moving sight, 
albeit correctly aesthetic. 

"Not as we've any real, use for them," 
said Dandy. 

" No use at all," a big Cornishman usually 
called " Jigger " put in. Jigger was justly 
-famed for his metaphors. " No more use'n 
side pockets to a toad." 

" Innnediately upon this briUiant effort 
James Burton arrived upon the scene. He 
was more tacitium and deathly pale than 
usual. His eyes glittered strangely with the 
glint one sees in those of a newly caged 
animal. It has been seen before now in the 
eyes of British troops when driven into a 
tight corner and orders are given to hold 
fire. They were the eyes of a man who 
was going to be dangerous when his time 
came. And the time was very near. 

Nobody saw this save Gipsy. He began 
to understand that Dandy was going to get 
a warm quarter of an hour presently. He 
stripped to his grey shirt and peeled his 
black, powerful arms. Burton's quick gaze 
flashed along the slouching, smiling line of 
the gang. No need to tell him what had 

happened. Behind the anger blazing in his 
eyes there linked the ghost of a smile. Mad 
as Burton was, he was not quite blind to the 
humour of the situation. 

" What does all this tomfoolery mean ? " 
he asked. 

Somebody pushed the gigantic Jigger for- 
ward. He advanced with a wide, expanding 

"It's a sort of a club," he explained. 
" Don't you talk of your Primrose League 
no longer. This 'ere Yi'let League's the thing. 
It's all agin' drinkin' and swearin' " 

The speaker paused, blunderingly conscious 
that he had given the eneniy an opening. 
Before he could recover himself, Burton 
shot in. 

" I'm glad of that," he said. " Anything 
calculated to stop swearing will have my 
hearty support. You are a foul-mouthed 
set of blackguards, and there's a rascally 
thief now amongst you. And if you don't 
all get to work at once, I'll dock you a quarter 
of a day, certain." 

For once Burton left off with the better 
of the argument. The whistle had gone and 
there was no time for reply. Moreover, if a 
man arrived a minute late, a ganger could put 
him back a quarter of a day, and repartee at 
something like threepence a word was too 
much like luxury. 

Still, the gang could watch their leader 
under bent brows. He appeared to be taking 
less notice of them than usual, he seemed to 
be straining his eyes ever down the valley ; 
he stood up erect and soldierly, like a sorely 
pressed outpost waiting for relief. There 
was more than one man in the Eeserves in 
the gang wdio recognised the sergeant in that 
still figure. 

Dandy alone was not satisfied ; he shirked 
his work, he whistled offensively. Finally 
he took the stump of a cigarette from his 
pocket and lighted it with ostentatious care. 
A moment later and the cigarette was jerked 
into a puddle of clay, and Burton's heel 
upon it. 

" You insolent scoundrel ! " Burton said 
hoarsely. " I'll reckon with you presently. 
Move those bricks up to the head of the 
gully ; get them done by dinner-time, or I 
report you for skulking. I'll teach you a 
lesson yet, my fine fellow ! " 

Dandy went limply about his task. He 
felt that he had a grievance against Provi- 
dence. Moreover, he was properly impressed 
with the gleam in Burton's eye. Well, there 
were more violets in Burton's garden, and 
those violets had roots attached to them. 



Where was Burton's gratitude, seeing that Dandy had thoughtfully spared a fine cluster of 
blooms under one of the glass lights ? There was no chance of consulting Gipsy, who 
bent over his work in exemplary fashion. 

At the first sight of real authority displayed by Burton, a moiety of the violets had 
disappeared. This was grovelling, and Dandy resented it accordingly. But Burton seemed 
to see nothing of the impression he had created, standing still and motionless, with his 
restless eyes strained down the valley. It was near dinner-time when a lad came up and 
handed an orange-coloured envelope to Burton. 

He took it slowly and tore the cover. He read the lengthy telegraphic message with a 

blank, expressionless face, 
then he tore the flimsy 
into tiny shreds. Suddenly, 
without the slightest warn- 
ing, he gave a yell that 
rang along the valley, after 
which he danced a hornpipe 
step deliriously. Before the 
astounded gang had grasped 
the situation. Burton was 
himself again. 

"D. T.," said Jigger 
feelingly. There was a link 
between ganger and men at 
last. " I've seen poor beg- 
gars taken like it afore." 

"It's j'y," said Gipsy, 
" that's what it is — j'y. And 
when the j'y passes away, 

" ' Get up,' Burton said 
pithily. ' You'll take it 
fighting, I suppose ? ' " 



pore old Dandy's goin' to cop a cold, see if 
he don't." 

Burton walked through the gang uncon- 
cernedly until the whistle sounded for dinner. 
Then he darted vigorously down the valley, 
where presently a feminine figure joined him. 
It was only the keen eyes of Gipsy that dis- 
covered this, and amidst the babel of tongues 
Gipsy was strangely silent. The comedy had 
taken an unexpected turn, and his mind was 
busy scheming out a new denouement, 

Dandy stalked out of the canteen at an 
abnormally early hour considering that it 
was only Monday, and consequently there 
was no strain on the exchequer. But there 
are times when the cheerful cup does not 
cheer, and this was one of them. In the 
first place, Dandy's joke at the expense of 
Burton had lamentably missed fire, and all 
the afternoon Burton had handled the men 
with a vigour and fire that fairly dazed them. 

Again, on the way to the canteen Dandy 
had met Miss Benwell. On attempting to 
take up love's dalliance at the interesting 
stage where it had stopped the previous 
Sunday, Dandy had been met with a chilling 
reception. Evidently something more than 
violets would be needed to heal the breach. 
At any rate, Kate Benwell should have no 
more of Burton's flowers. Dandy was 
enough of a horticulturist to know that flowers 
without roots were impossible. And he was 
going to take his measures accordingly. 

Burton's trim little cottage was in dark- 
ness. His old housekeeper was gone, and 
Burton was away on pleasure somewhere, 
perhaps at Benwell's cottage. The thought 
filled Dandy with melancholy. His broad 
chest heaved with emotion. 

It was getting quiet by this time, the can- 
teen had closed, and the long lane of lights 
where the huts stood was picked out here 
and there with increasing gaps of darkness ; 
presently the glow of Dandy's pipe was the 
only light to be seen. 

Then he made his way cautiously into 
Burton's garden. He slipped the lights 
from the frames where the violets grew, and 
tugged at the roots. It was by no means easy 
work, and he lacked the necessary celerity 
for this kind of marauding. A. score of 
yards away stood a hut, where tools and 
boxes and some cases of dynamite cartridges 
were stored. The dynamite had no business 
to be there, it was contrary to all kind of 
regulations, but there it was. And the lock 
was capable of easy picking. 

Dandy crept over to the hut. The lock 
presented no great difficulties. Locks don't 
as a rule to gentlemen who wear Newgate 
fringes and are modestly silent as to their 
past. Inside the hut it was dark, but by the 
aid of his pipe Dandy found a draining 
spade — a long, narrow shovel, the very thing 
for his work. As he stumbled, the pipe fell 
from D.indy's lips and disappeared under a 
broad ledge. To find it now without striking 
a light was impossible. Well, one pipe was 
YQVj like another, and Dandy decided to risk 
it. Moreover, Burton might come home at 
any moment. 

sj: i^ >^ ^ ^ 

He was getting on with his work famously. 
Another moment or two and the last patch 
of fragrant blossoms would be no more. 
Dandy chuckled with the air of a man who 
has not toiled in vain. Then a nervous grip 
was laid on his shoulder. 

" I want you, my friend," a voice said 
softly. " I've been waiting for this." 

Dandy rose swiftly. It was pitch dark 
and as yet he had not been recognised. If 
it came to a fight, Dandy had no clinging 
doubts as to his chances of success. He 
could knock Burton down and make assur- 
ance doubly sure by flight. The plan of 
campaign flashed lightning-like through his 
brain. (Jn fortunately a counter-attack flashed 
through Burton's brain simultaneously. As 
Dandy lunged for him, he stepped aside, 
and down went the other with a smashing 
blow on the jaw. 

The force of the blow fairly staggered the 
marauder. Dandy was no novice at the 
game, and he realised that he had met a 
master. Ere he recovered from the painful 
surprise, he was dragged by the heels into 
Burton's cottage and the door closed behind 
him. Every stick of furniture had been 
cleared from the room — it formed an ideal 

" Get up," Burton said pithily. " You'll 
take it fighting, I suppose ? " 

Dandy thought that on the whole he 
would. The sportsman would be content to 
give him a sound thrashing ; if he shirked 
it, unpleasant magisterial proceedings might 
follow, and Dandy's feet had been too 
recently planted in the paths of virtue to 
risk that. 

Taking it altogether. Dandy made a good 
fight of it. There was a huge swelling 
behind the ear, and his eyes were fast closing, 
also he was painfully short of breath. 
Finally, he lay on the floor with the haziest 
idea of his surroundings. 



" Pretty fair for one out of training," 
Burton said quite cheerfully. "It's the 
canteen that does the mischief, my friend. 
Where did you get that spade from ? " 

" From the shed yonder," Dandy blurted 
out. " I picked the lock. I know you won't 
give a pore bloke away, but I dropped my 
pipe " 

" Dropped your ivhat ? Lighted ? " 

Dandy nodded. He was still too hazy to 
recollect the dynamite. With a cry. Burton 
dashed for the door. He stood there still as 
a statue for a moment. 

" You madman ! " he cried. "You careless, 
criminal fool! See what your pipe has 
done ! " 

The iron-framed windows were illuminated 
by a faint, unsteady glow. Down the breeze 
came the pungent odour of burning wood. 
The hut was on fire, and there was enough 
dynamite in it to destroy the neighbouring 
shanties like so many packs of cards. If the 
fire could be extinguished, and the cases of 
dynamite removed, nobody need be any the 
wiser, and no blame need attach to anybody. 

" Come along ! " Burton yelled. " There's 
water in the gully behind, and a couple of 
buckets in the kitchen. Get a move on you, 
and don't make any noise ; if we can manage 
without disturbing the women and children, 
so much the better." 

Dandy sat fettered by a sudden and all- 
conquering fear. Burton eyed him scorn- 

" A coward ! " he said. " I didn't expect 
that of you." 

Dandy would have protested, but his voice 
failed him. He was conscious of a certain 
grievance against Burton. He had just taken 
a severe punishment manfully and well, so 
that the accusation was in poor taste. 

All the same, he was a coward. But for 
Burton, standing like a contemptuous sentinel 
in the way, he would have bolted. His idea 
was to have rushed yelling down the valley 
that a dynamite shed was on fire, and then 
placed a space as wide as possible between 
himself and the danger, 

"You've got to come with me," Burton 
said grimly. " You cur ! I'm just as fright- 
ened as yourself, only I'm not going to give 
way to it. I'm a soldier, an Engineer, and I 
know what the feeling is when the enemy are 
waiting for you behind cover, and you've got 
to advance whether you like it or not. Every 
man is more or less of a coward then. And 
if I'd given way to it, I should have been 
kicked out of the Army. But I didn't give 
^vay to it, and in a few weeks I shall have my 

commission. I came here on two months' 
furlough because there was a cloud hanging 
over me. But, thank God ! my name is clear 
now, and the blackguard who tried to ruin me 
is found out. You thought I was a soft kind 
of fellow. I could have drilled you all. I'll 
drill you^ my lad ! Come along with me. 
March ! " 

Burton spoke rapidly and clearly. There 
was the real ring of command in his voice ; 
his eye was the eye of a born leader of men. 
Dandy obeyed mechanically. He could not 
have helped himself. He wondered vaguely 
what had come over this man. AVhat a fool 
Gipsy had been ! 

By this time the fire had a good grip of 
the hut. There was water in the gully 
behind, and buckets. Burton threw open the 
door and entered. A fierce blast of heat 
and a pungent w^rack of smoke drove him 
back. It would be impossible to do anything 
till the flames were driven back. After all, 
it might be necessary to rouse the people in 
the huts. 

But not if Burton could help it. He and 
Dandy were working grimly now, hustling 
backwards and forwards with buckets, fight- 
ing the flames back inch by inch, taking their 
lives in their hands at the same time. As 
the smoke lifted sullenly, a big case of dyna- 
mite at the back was seen to burn furiously. 
Burton groaned to himself, his teeth close 

" How do you feel now ? " he asked hoarsely. 

Dandy wiped his streaming face. He was 
running wet, the beautiful Newgate curl was 
no more than a damp clout now. There was 
a queer, grey pallor under the tan of his 
cheeks. He laughed unsteadily. 

" Funk ! " he said — " blooming funk ain't 
no word for it. If I was by myself, I'd just 
'ook it and 'owl. But I don't like to leave 

The shamefaced Dandy would have been 
astounded to hear that this was courage of 
the highest order. But Bui ton's Egyptian 
experience had told him all about that. 
He patted the palsied Dandy on the back 

" We've got to get those back cases out," 
he said. "If we can manage those without 
a blow-up, the rest is plam sailing. Come 
along. Men have annexed the Victoria Cross 
for less than this." 

Dandy moved forward. was a queer ' 
choking m his throat, and he could hear his 
heart beating like a drum. But he was not 
going to be bested by Burton. They fought 
desperately up to the burning cases ; they 



worked at them until their hands were 
covered with white blisters. But they had 
got them out at last. Blackened and blis- 
tered and bleeding, wet as rags from head 
to foot, Burton let off a jell that rang all 
down the valley. They had won. 

" The other two — quick !" he said. "Now 
the water. We're safe, my lad." 

A bucket or two of water and the thing 
was done. Dandy dropped upon a pile of 
clay, limp and exhausted. He was trembling 
like one after a long, weakening illness. 

" I ain't coddin'," he said, " I ain't jokin'. 
Far from it. But I'm goin' to faint — me ! 
me ! Eummy, ain't it ? " 

He spoke half with a sob, half with a 
defiant growl. Burton produced brandy and 
poured a little down Dandy's throat. The 
burly, deep-chested navvy stags^ered to his 
feet. For some little time he seemed unable 
to speak. " You won't give me away ? " he 
asked. "You're a man all through, that's 
wliat you are, and I'm a fool to doubt it. 
But seeing as I did my best bloomin' 
cowurd or no bloomin' coward — you won't 
let on as I showed the white feather ? " 

"Rot!" said Bur- 
ton. "Give me your 

"What for? "Dandy 
asked suspiciously. 

" To shake, of course. 
Because it is the hand 
of a hero. My good 
fellow, the man who 
conquers fear as you 
did is a hero. I never 
saw a braver thing 
done, and I've seen 
some plucky things in 
my time." 

" If you hadn't been 
here," Dandy began, 
"I should V 'ooked 
it straight." 

" I say you are a 
hero, ' ' Burton persisted . 
Dandy graciously al- 
lowed it to pass. Way 
up the Yalley of Sweet 
Waters they are still 
inclined to make much 
of Dandy, but he reso- 
lutely declines to be 

But for Burton he 
would "'a' took and 
'ooked it," and to this 
Dandy steadily adheres. 
But he didn't " 'ook it," and Burton was 
there; and this is the history of a little 
of the British Army. 

"All right, matey," he said, " 'ave your 
own way. So long." 

♦ ♦ %^ i^ ^ 

"She'd never 'ave 'ad aught to do with 
yer. Dandy," Jigger remarked to a select 
circle in the canteen. "Why, she's been 
engaged to Burton for four years. Eddi- 
catod better'n you think. And Burton's 
gotten his commission. There was a lot of 
trouble at Salisbury over some missing 
stores, and Kate Benwell got 'im a job here. 
Women's funny things. Dandy." 

" Yes," Dandy said laconically, " they be. 
So's men, come to that." 

There was a long silence, filled by the 
puffing of pipes and the tilting of tankards. 
Gipsy lay back smoking his cigarette. 

" I never could see much fun in that vi'let 
business of yours, Dandy," he said. 

Dandy looked up suspiciously. His mind 
was travelhng swiftly over recent events. 
Then he began to discern patches of light in 
dark places. 


"Perhaps not," he said indifferently. few minutes, I'll make you as your own 

"Happen as you know'd something about mother won't know you. I ain't a vindictive 

Burton before ? " man — far from it — but I'd esteem the 

Gipsy fell into the trap. punchin' of your 'ead as real luxury." 

" Old Benwell telled me," he said. " Only But Gipsy was equal to the occasion. He 

it was a secret." hailed a passing potman. 

Dandy rose slowly to his feet and pointed " Fill all those cans," he said. " Boys, 

to the door. A fine, flashing scorn was in 'ere's the 'ealth of the bride and bride- 

his eye ; anger filled his heart. groom ! And if they don't make Dandy 

"If you'll come outside," he said slowly best man, they ought to be ashamed of 

and ponderously, "just step outside for a themselves." 


CPRING is hastening —Spring is hastening on her way— 

Tve a means of knowing. 
Listen closely ! Can you hear it ? 
How within the leafy glades 
Fairy horns are blowing? 

Swift she hastens— swift and decked in bright array: 
Birds their welcome singing — 
Pause and listen! Can you hear it? 
How, deep in the woodland glades, 
Fairy bells are ringing? 

Low she bends her— and a fairy kiss doth lie 
On each bud's tender dreaming. 
And to greet her — can you see them? 
Where the river gurgles by- 
Fairy flags outstreaming? 

Yet another — yet another proof have I 
Than the whispering of the grasses ; 
For the blossom — can you see it? 
How it, bending from on high, 
Blushes as she passes? 


THE mo:n^ey kings of the modern world 

By W. T. Stead.* 

" y^NE hundred years hence," said Cecil 

I i Khodes the last time I met him, 

^^^^ '*when I look down from the sky 

at this little planet, I shall find that it has 

passed into the hands of a Hebrew financier." 

It is a prophecy deserving to be classed 
with a similar confident prediction by a still 
more famous man, which has not been ful- 
filled. , " In a hundred years," said Napoleon, 
" the world will either be Republican or 
Cossack." More than a hundred years have 
passed since Napoleon's prophecy, and 
although both the Cossack and the Republic 
have extended their sway over a considerable 
portion of the area of the planet, the world 
is still far from recognising the sovereignty 
of either, or even of both combined. 

No one, not even Mr. Rhodes himself, 
were he still here, would claim anything 
more for his forecast than that it summed 
up in a striking phrase the probable issue of 
the tendency of our times. The date fixed 
is not of the essence of the prophecy, and 
although more importance may be attached 
to the nationality of the future world-ruler, 
that also is a detail. The one essential point 
about the remark lies in its frank recognition 
that the sceptre of the world is passing from 
the hands of emperors, monarchs, soldiers, 
and politicians into those of the financier. 

Money is the coming; king, and the 
American dollar will be the emperor of the 
world. As the Egyptians had their dynasty 
of shepherd kings, so the whole wide world 
is to pass under the domination of money 
kings. Such, at least, was Mr. Rhodes's 
forecast, such the suggestion which has 
inspired the present series of studies of the 
Money Kings of the Modern World. 

Money has always been, to some extent, 
the equivalent of power. It was long ago 
described as the sinews of war. But hereto- 
fore wealth, like the sword, has merely been 
the instrument of power in the hands of 
rulers. The financier, like the soldier for 
whose campaigns he has supplied the indis- 
pensable sinews, has been the servant of the 

* Copyright, 190H, by the Curtis Publishing Company, 
in the United States of America. 


Sbate rather than its master. But just as 
the Mayors of the Palace in the days of the 
Merovingians grew tired of tolerating the 
pretensions of their rois faineants, and sub- 
stituted their own direct authorship for that 
of the sovereign, our money kings may ere 
long raise the old question, whether the man 
who had the power without the throne, or 
the man who merely had the throne without 
the power, should be recognised as the real 

The mere possibility of such an issue to 
our present more or less confused welter of 
world-politics is sufficient to justify a much 
more careful and exhaustive study of the 
whole subject than is possible in a series of 
magazine articles. But pending the advent 
of the new Gibbon, who will write, not " the 
decline and fall," but the rise and triumph 
of the money power, it may not be without 
interest first to glance at the possibilities of 
the emergence of the new power, and then to 
follow it up by a sketch of the leading per- 
sonages who may be regarded as the pre- 
cursors or founders of the dynasty of the 

It must be frankly admitted at the outset 
that if the money king is to be the poten- 
tate of the future, he will not owe his 
elevation to supreme power to any intrinsic 
popularity which he enjoys with the public. 
The poet and the preacher have vied with 
each other in holding him up to ridicule and 
contempt. Shakespeare hnmortalised the 
money king of the Middle Ages in Shylock 
— a name which, somewhat unjustly, has 
come to be the synonym for grasping, 
greed, and calculating malice. Milton made 
Mammon the leader of the hosts of fallen 
spirits who 

Rifled the bowels of their mother earth 
For treasures better hid 

in order to provide the artificers of Pande- 
monium with building material suited to 
their needs. 

Let none admire 
That riches grow in hell : that soil may best 
Deserve the precious bane. 

Spenser exhausted the resources of his 
luxuriant imagination in rendering Mammon 



hateful ; and poet after poet, down to and 
including Tennyson, has employed his genius 
in representing the acquisition of money and 
the making of money as something essentially 
mean and unworthy of the dignity of man, 
which they appear to believe is never more 
wjrthily displayed than when from— 

Deathful-j?rinriin,<^ mouths of the fortress flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 

As with the poets, so with the divines. 
Few have carried the dislike and distrust of 
wealth so far as St. Francis, who regarded 

"The Lady Poverty" as his bride ; but all, 
even ecclesiastics who have amassed great 
fortunes, have echoed the apostolic dictum 
that " the love..of money is the root of all evil." 
What the combined forces of religion, and 
poetry might have failed to accomplish was 
achieved by their allies, aristocratic caste and 
military pride. The noble and the soldier 
alikq despised the trader. " The Jew to the 
Crhetto " summed up the verdict of mediaeval 
Rurope upon the financiers of their times. 
It was only in a democratic age that the 

money king could have founded his new 
dynasty. For unlike all other systems by 
which men exercise authority over their 
fellows, the money power is the most univer- 
sally divisible. Only one man can sit on a 
throne. Hereditary aristocrats are in their 
essence exclusive. Priesthoods cannot share 
their sacerdotal prerogatives with their con- 
gregations, but money power is capable of 
distribution almost ad infinitum, " Whoso 
has sixpence," said Carlyle in a famous 
passage in " Sartor Resartus," " is sovereign 
(to the length of sixpence) 
over all men ; commands 
cooks to feed him, philoso- 
phers to teach him, kings to 
mount guard over him —to 
the length of sixpence." 

The political economist 
may be regai'ded as the John 
the Baptist of the money 
king. Adam Smith led the 
way, and great was the multi- 
tude of those who followed 
after. Burke, who had a 
sovereign scorn for "sophis- 
ters and economists," was 
courageous enough to endorse 
their main contention when 
lie said — 

"The love of lucre, though 
sometimes carried to a ridicu- 
lous and sometimes to a 
vicious excess, is the grand 
cause of prosperity to all 
states. In this natural, this 
reasonable, this powerful, this 
prolific principle — it is for 
the statesman to employ it as 
he finds it with all its con- 
comitant excellencies, with 
all its imperfections, on its 

Since his day the making 
of money has gradually as- 
sumed a higher place in the 
estimation of mankind. 
From being regarded as the lowest and most 
sordid of occupations, it has been exalted to 
the first place among the pursuits of honour- 
able men. Fifty years ago, Tennyson 
gnashed his teeth over the thought that in 
England commerce was all in all, and that 
" Britain's one sole God was a millionaire." 
Nowadays it is not in England alone or even 
exclusively that millionaire-worship prevails. 
Since Aaron set up the golden calf in the 
Avilderness of Sinai for the Chosen People to 
worship, the cult of gold has never been so 




imiversai as it is to-day. 
In former days it was 
scouted as sinful and 
described by all manner 
of disparaging epithets. 

Now avarice and 
covetousness have dis- 
appeared from the cata- 
logue of deadly sins. 
Disguised as thrift and 
business capacity, they 
have become the idols of 
the market-place, and in 
our democratic age we 
are witnessing the evolu- 
tion of a triumphant 
pintocracy which every day tends more and 
more to place itself under the absolute con- 
trol of its supreme autocrat. 

The ambition to acquire wealth, as Max 
Nordau recently pointed out, is no longer sor- 
did. "To despise money is very foolish, as it 
means to despise force, and force is the essence 
of the universe. Money in itself is nothing 
and means nothing. It is a mere symbol. Ifc is 
the conventional representation of the whole 
of civihsation." But it is hardly necessary 
to quote apologies for money-making. The 
money kings of the modern world in one 
respect bear a close resemblance to their 
predecessors. They will never lack the 
incense of flattery from their courtiers. 
Already the new dynasty is being acclaimed 
in terms that, if well founded, would almost 
justify a claim for a new right Divine for 
the coming kings of the world. 

Disregarding the extravagancies of in- 
terested eulogists, it is profitable to inquire 
what are likely to be the characteristics of 
the new yoke that is being fitted upon the 
necks of the human race. It is not difficult 
to discern the first and most salient charac- 
teristic which differentiates the new dynasty 
from all those which preceded it Every 
ruler who has hitherto borne sway in the 
world has based his throne upon land. 
Whether they were soldiers who used the 
earth as an arena for battlefields, or states- 

men who re- 
garded it as a 
taxable area, or 
monarchs who 
saw in itthe 
foundation of 
their throne, all 
previous dynas- 
ties were seated 
on land, on solid 
earth. They were, 
therefore, no matter how far they might 
extend their authority over other regions, 
essentially local and national. There has 
never been a dynasty whose throne was 
based upon the sea. Britain, the Imperial 
Venice of the nineteenth century, whose 
canals were oceans and whose streets were 
continents, came nearest to the realisation of 
a sea-power. Bat there is no power more 
distinctively insular, so passionately national. 
British policy all over the world is exclusively 
controlled by the inhabitants of the two 
small islands in which her Empire was 

In this respect the dynasty of money 
kings will be a new thing in human history. 
It marks a distinct advance upon all previous 
dynasties in that it is not tethered to terra 
firma. It is universal, cosmopolitan, and 
catholic. It knows no frontiers. It is 
hampered by no geographical limitations. 
Money, like water, is a circulating medium 
which everywhere tends to find its own 
level. No matter how parochial may be 
the field in which the financier begins to 
operate, he will sooner or later find it im- 
possible to confine himself within the parish 
boundary. As all the rivers flow into the 
sea, and all the seas form part of the world- 
ocean, so every business, no matter how 
small and secluded it may be, feels the 
impact of forces operating at the other side 
of the world. Gibbon's classic instance of 
how the victories of Tamerlane, in Central 
Asia, raised the price of herrings in London 
market illustrates the truth of this general 
law centuries before electricity and steam 
had made all mankind next-door neighbours. 
"Why?" asked Mr. Yanderlip of M. 
Witte, "are ironworks closed and workmen 
starving in Russia ? " 

" Because," replied the great Russian 
statesman-financier — " because of England's 
war against the Boer Republics in South 

A typhoon in the China seas will ruin a 
grocer in Manchester, or a drought in 
Australia make the fortune of a grazier in 



the Highlands. For we are all members one 
of another ; and when one member suffers, all 
the other members suffer with it. Thus by 
necessity, from the very nature of the 
foundations of its throne, the new dynasty 
must be international, and, like John Wesley, 
take the whole world for its parish. 

From this it follows that, despite all 
appearances to the contrary, the influence of 
the new dynasty must in the long run tell 
in favour of peace. Commerce, it must be 
admitted, has not by any means justified the 
dithyrambic invocations of the poets who 
saw in her the white-winged harbinger of 
universal peace. Many recent wars have 
been waged on the plea of the necessity for 
securing markets. To fight for markets, 
said Sir E. Clarke, " is to murder for gain." 
The rivalry of the nations in their struggle 
for the trade of the world stands foremost 
among the constant perils which threaten the 
peace and tranquillity of mankind. Never- 
theless, this is but a phrase. The money 
king may, in the present stage of evolution, 
follow the example of other monarchs and 
employ the sword to advance his ambitionp, 
but his real interest will permanently press 
him in the other direction. 

War is at present, and for the present, 
good for the business of sections of the com- 
munity. But war is never advantageous to 
the whole body politic. The conversion of 
possible consumers of manufactured goods 
into mere carrion is never to the interest of 
the world's business, whatever local and 
temporary stimulus it may give to the 
holders of army contracts or the makers of 
firearms. The wider the area over which 
the new dynasty establishes its authority, 
the more steady and potent will be the 

appeal which peace will make to their self- 
interest. As the area tends constantly to 
widen, there will grow the hope of ter- 
minating the present armed anarchy of the 
world by the creation of some rational states 
system in which disputes will be adjudicated 
by a tribunal which, like the Supreme Court 
of the United States, will have behind it the 
whole forces of the federated nations. 

At present the money king is but partly 
conscious of the work in which he is engaged. 
Like the earthworm, which fertilises and 
cultivates the earth while thinking of nothing 
else but eating his dinner, so our money 
kings are steadily bringing about a world- 
wide revolution while merely intent upon 
earning dividends. The clink of the 
almighty dollar is a curious echo of the 
angelic anthem at Bethlehem, but the good 
news of great joy seems likely to find itself 
translated into fact more effectively by the 
Bourses than by the Bibles of Christendom. 
Mammon may be, as Milton said, " the least 
erected spirit that fell from heaven," but it 
was with true inspiration that the poet made 
Mammon plead for peace in the ^councils of 

All things invite 
To peaceful counsels, and the settled state 
Of order, how in safety best we may 
Compose our present evils with regard 
Of Avhat we are and were, dismissing quite 
All thoughts of war. Ye have what I advise. 

To this it may be objected that it was the 
pressure of Mammon in the shape of Egyptian 
bondholders which drove England into the 
war in Egypt, that the last war in South 
Africa was due to financial pressure, and 
that the great danger which at present 
threatens the peace of the world is the desire 
of the concessionaires to exploit the Chinese 



market. Thab is all true. It is also true 
that the great financiers have often facilitated 
war by the readiness with which they lent 
money to Governments which otherwise could 
not have prosecuted even a single campaign. 
Fifty years ago Cobden denounced, but 
denounced in vain, as a moralist and an 
economist, the practice of lending money to 
foreign Powers to be expended on arma- 
ments, which would immediately entail a 
shnilar expenditure upon our own Govern- 
ment. The in- 
vestor in foreign 
bonds is blind to 
these considera- 
tions, but after a 
time the very stake 
he has in the 
foreign country 
operates in the 
direction of peace. 
The holders of 
Turkish Bonds in 
1875-8, although 
smarting from the 
of their interest, passionately opposed Mr. 
Gladstone's demand for the coercion of the 
Sultan in the cause of Bulgarian independence. 
The fact that the French have invested fifty- 
seven million pounds in Egyptian securities 
is at this moment the most effective check 
upon the raising of the Egyptian question to 
disturb the peace of Europe. If England 
had invested more of her savings in Russian 
Bonds, there would have been much less of 
the Russophobia which continually imperils 
the peace of Asia. 

The fact that France has invested no less 
a sum than £1,200,000,000 in foreign lands 
undoubtedly steadies French policy.* 

The amount of British money invested 
abroad and in the Colonies yields, according 
to the Income Tax returns, a net income 

to British investors of from forty to fifty 
million pounds a year, representing a capital 
of about as nuich as that of the French in- 
vestments abroad. The individual investor 
is, however, not always able to bring any 
direct pressure to bear upon those in whose 
hands lie the issues of peace or war. As 
Burke said of property in general, so it may 
be said of property in foreign funds. " That 
power goes with property is not universally 
true, and the idea that the operation of it is 

certain and invariable may mislead us very 
fatally." When property is centralised in 
the hands of a few money kings, the power 
which it carries with it will be indisputable 
and irresistible. 

That the dynasty of money kings will 
make for peace may be assumed with hope, 
if not with confidence. That it will make 
for liberty is much more doubtful. If the 
money king dislikes foreign war, he simply 
detests revolutions. But it is by revolutions 
that nations win their liberties. The great 
French Revolution might have been staved 
off if a Pierpont Morgan or a Rockefeller 
had been able to choke the deficit and 
restore order to the finances of the Bourbons. 
One of the chief disposing causes of the 
Revolution of 1848, which shook half the 

* The following figures, extracted from the Return issued by the French Foreign Office, may be appropriately 
prefaced by the remark with which the official reporter concludes his introduction to his statutes: "At a time 
when economic questions govern the policy of nations, the French financial group remains one of the great 
means of action of France in the world." The figures are approximate only, but they illustrate none the less 
forcibly the extent to which Capital tends to become international. The figures quoted are rendered in millions 
of pounds, ignoring fractions and sums less than a million representing Newfoundland, British Asia, and the 
British West Indies : — 

French Investments in 1901 in Foreign Countries. 

Million pounds. 
... 17 
... 12 

Million pounds. 

Million pounds. 

Russia in Europe 



. 67 


,, Asia ... 



. 37 

Mexico ... 




. 36 

Norway ... 




. 27 

Greece ... 

Great Britain ... 



. 26 

Servia ... 

British Africa ... 


United States .. 

. 24 


Canada ... 



. 24 






Chili ... 














Monaco .. 


Sweden .. 



Million pounds. 

(fcc, &c. 

The total amount of French capital invested abroad is estimated at 1,200 million pounds. 



thrones in Europe and established the Second 
French Republic, was a financial crisis 
which the modern money king, had he 
then existed, would have found means to 
avert. But a still more pertinent illustra- 
tion is afforded us in the origin of the 
American Republic. How was it that the 
Union came into existence ? Let Daniel 
Webstei: reply. " That Union was reached 
only by the discipline of our virtues in 
the severe school of adversity. It had 
its origin in the necessities of disordered 

finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined 

But enough of this preliminary speculation 
in generalibns. In the subsequent articles 
I shall pass in review some of the more 
notable money kings of our time, beginning 
with the Rothschilds, who may be said to 
have inaugurated the dynasty in Europe by 
founding a family which for nearly a 
century was one of the leading factors in 
the political and industrial development of 
the Continent. 

DEAR Absent Wanderer, 
Think of me 
As one well lost ; content to be 
Lost down a Summer afternoon. 
Beyond the call of swift or soon ! 

Deep down a heavy dream of song — 
Haunting the hash in cadence strong. 
With heart-heard voices of the Spring, 
Along the silence echoing. 

Lost down a Summer afternoon 
Beyond the call of swift or soon, 
With Hollyhocks to point the way- 
Dear Absent, look for me to-day ! 

Tranced in a daze of shadow green. 
Whose dusk desires embrace and lean. 
With hastening step each hour increased, 
For ever homeward to the east. 

Deep down a sultry glamoured glade. 
Where musky chestnut trees pervade 
With far, forgetful sorcery — 
From out their white veil's mystery. 

One with the sloth of sated bees, 
Or the light pleasure of the breeze. 
One with the breathless beauty-gU>om, 
Faint in the hot decay of bloom. 

Through all the listless leisure sought 
By no stray ci'ier save thy thought— 
Beyond the call of swift or soon, 
Lost down a Summer afternoon I 



Compiled and Edited by 


^ ^f^" ^ 



rCM V 



Ml f 







^^ o ^S/ 

E all called him " Skin 
o' my Tooth " : his 
friends, who were few ; 
his clients, w^io were 
many ; and I, his 
confidential clerk, 
solus — and very proud 
I am to hold that 
position. I believe, 
as a matter of fact, 
that his enemies — and their name is legion — 
call him Patrick Mulligan ; but to us all 
who know him as he is, " Skin o' my Tooth " 
he always w^as, from the day that he got a 
verdict of " Not guilty " out of the jury who 
tried James Tovey, "the Dartmouth mur- 
derer." Tovey hadn't many teeth, but it 
w^as by the skin of those few molars of his 
that he escaped the gallows ; not thanks to 
the pleading of his counsel, but all thanks 
to the evidence collected by Patrick Mulligan, 
his lawyer. 

Of course, Skin o' my Tooth is not popular 
among his colleagues ; there is much pre- 
judice and petty spite in all professions, and 
the Law is not exempt from this general 

Everyone knows tnat Skin o' my Tooth is 
totally unacquainted with the use of kid 
gloves. He works for the best of his client ; 
let the other side look to themselves, I say. 

Funny-looking man, too, old Skin o' my 
Tooth — fat and rosy and comfortable as an 
Irish pig, with a face as stodgy as a boiled 
currant dumpling. His hair, I believe, 
would be red if he gave it a chance at all, 
but he wears it cropped so close to his bulky 
head that he looks bald in some lights. 
Then, we all know that gentle smile of his, 
and that trick of casting down his eyes 
which gives him a look that is best de- 
scribed by the word " coy " ; that trick is 
always a danger-signal to the other side. 

* Copyright, 1903, by Ward, Lock and Co., Limited, 
in the United States of America. 


Now, in the case of Edward Kelly, every- 
one will admit that that young man came 
nearer being hanged for murder than any of 
us would care for. 

But this is how it all happened. 

On Tuesday, September 3rd, Mary Mills 
and John Craddock — who were walking 
through the Saltashe Woods—came across 
the body of a man lying near the pond, 
in a pool of blood. Mary, of course, 
screamed, and would have fled ; but 
John, manfully conquering the feeling of 
sickness which threatened to overcome him 
too, went up to the body to get a closer 
Yiew of the face. To his horror he recog- 
nised Mr. Jeremiah Whadcoat, a well-known, 
respectable resident of Pashet. The unfor- 
tunate man seemed to John Craddock to be 
quite dead ; still, he thought it best to 
despatch Mary at once for Doctor Howden, 
and also to the police-station ; whilst he,, 
with really commendable courage, elected to 
remain beside the body alone. 

It appears that about half an hour after 
Mary had left him, John thought that he 
detected a slight movement in the rigid body, 
which he had propped up against his knee, 
and that the wounded man uttered a scarcely 
audible sigh and then murmured a few 
words. The young man bent forward 
eagerly, striving with all his might to catch 
what these words might be. According to 
his subsequent evidence before the coroner's 
jury, Mr. Whadcoat then opened his eyes, 
and murmured quite distinctly — 

" The letter . . . Kelly . . . Edward 
. . . the other." After that all seemed 
over, for the face became more rigid and 
more ashen in colour than before. 

It was past six o'clock before the doctor 
and the inspector, with two constables and 
a stretcher from Pashet police-station, ap- 
peared upon the scene and relieved John 
Craddock of his lonely watch. Mr. Whad- 
coat had not spoken again, and the doctor 
pronounced life to be extinct. The body 

" Came across the body of a man in a pool of blood.' 



was quietly removed to Mr. Whadcoat's 
house in Pasliet, Mary Mills having already 
volunteered for the painful task of breaking 
the news to Miss Amelia, Mr. Whadcoat's 
sister, who lived with him. 

The unfortunate man was cashier to 
Messrs. Kelly and Co., the great wine mer- 
chants ; so Mr. Kelly, of Saltashe Park, also 
Mr. Edward Kelly, of Wood Cottage, were 
apprised of the sad event. 

At this stage the tragic affair seemed 
wrapped up in the most profound »mystery. 
Mr. Jeremiah Whadcoat was not known to 
possess a single enemy, and he certainly was 
not sufficiently endowed with worldly wealth 
to tempt the highway robber. So far the 
police had found nothing on the scene of the 
crime which could lead to a clue— footsteps 
of every shape and size leading in every 
direction, a few empty cartridges here and 
there ; all of which meant nothing, since 
Saltashe Woods are full of game, and both 
Mr. Kelly and Mr. Edward Kelly had had 
shooting'parties within the last few days. 

The public understood that permission 
had been obtained from Mr. Kelly to drag 
the pond, and, not knowing what to think or 
fear, it awaited the day of the inquest with 
eager excitement. 

I believe that that inquest was one of the 
most memorable in the annals of a coroner's 
court. There was a large crowd, of course, 
for the little town of Pashet was a mass of 
seething curiosity. 

The expert evidence of Dr. Howden, 
assisted by the divisional surgeon, was 
certainly very curious. Both learned gentle- 
men gave it as their opinion that deceased 
met his death through the discharge of 
small shot fired from a rifle at a distance of 
not more than a couple of yards. All the 
shot had lodged close together in the heart, 
and the flesh round the wound was slightly 

The police, on the other hand, had quite a 
tit-bit of sensation ready for the eager public. 
They had dragged the pond and had found 
the carcass of a dog. The beast had 
evidently been shot with the same rifle which 
had ended poor Mr. Whadcoat's days, the 
divisional surgeon, who had examined the 
carcass, having pronounced the wound — 
which was in the side — to be exactly similar 
in character. A final blow dealt on the 
animal's head with the butt-end of the rifle, 
however, had been the ultimate cause of its 
death. As the medical officer gave this 
sensational bit of evidence, a sudden and 
dead silence fell over all in that crowded 

court, for it had leaked out earlier in the 
day that the dead dog found in the pond 
was " Bags," Mr. Edward Kelly's well-known 
black retriever. 

In the midst of that silence. Miss Amelia 
Whadcoat— the sister of the deceased gentle- 
man — stepped forward, dressed in deep 
black, and holding a letter, which she handed 
to the coroner. 

" It came under cover, addressed to me," 
she explained, " on the Tuesday eveidng." 

The coroner, half in hesitation, turned the 
square envelope between his fingers. At last 
he read aloud — 

" To the Coroner and Jury at the inquest, 
should a fatal accident occur to me this 
(Tuesday) afternoon, in Saltashe Wood." 

Then he tore open the envelope. Im- 
mediately everyone noticed the look of 
boundless astonishment which spread over 
his face. There was a moment of breathless, 
silent expectation among the crowd, while 
Miss Amelia stood quietly with her hands 
demurely folded over her gingham umbrella, 
and her swollen eyes fixed anxiously upon 
that letter. 

At last the coroner, turning to the jury, 
said — - 

"Gentlemen, this letter is addressed to 
you as well as to myself. I am, therefore, 
bound to acquaint you of its contents ; but I 
must, of course, warn you not to allow your 
minds to be unduly influenced, however 
strange these few words may seem to you. 
The letter is dated from Ivy Lodge, Pashet, 
Tuesday, September 3rd, and signed 
' Jeremiah Whadcoat.' It says : ' Mr. 
Coroner and Gentlemen of the Jury, — I beg 
to inform you that on this day, at 2.30 p.m., 
I am starting to walk to Saltashe, there to 
see Mr. Kerhoet and Mr. Kelly on important 
business. Mr. Edward Kelly has desired 
me to meet him by the pond in Saltashe 
Woods, on my way. He knows of the 
business which takes me to Saltashe. He 
and I had a violent quarrel at the office on 
the subject last night, and he has every 
reason for wishing that I should never speak 
of it to Mr. Kelly and to Mr. Kerhoet, 
Last night he threatened to knock me 
down. If any serious accident happen to 
me, let Mr. Edward Kelly account for his 

A deadly silence followed, and then a 
muttered curse from somewhere among the 

" This is damnable ! " 
And Mr. Edward Kelly, young, good- 
looking, but, at this moment, as pale as 



death, pushed his way forward among the 

He wanted to speak, but the coroner 
waved him aside ni his most official manner, 
while Miss Ameha Whadcoat demurely 
concluded her evidence. Personally, she 
knew nothing of her brother's quarrel with 
Mr. Edward Kelly. She did not even know 
that he was going to Saltashe Woods on 
that fatal afternoon. Then she retired, and 
Mr. Edward Kelly was called. 

Questioned by the coroner, he admitted 
the quarrel spoken of by the deceased, 
admitted meeting him by the pond in Salt- 
ashe Woods, but emphatically denied having 
the slightest ill-feeling against " Old 
Whadcoat," as he called him, and, above 
all, having the faintest desire for wishing to 
silence him for ever. 

" The w^hole thing is a ghastly mistake or 
a weird joke," he declared firmly. 

" But the quarrel ? " persisted the coroner. 

" I don't deny it," retorted the young 
man. " It was the result of a preposterous 
accusation old Whadcoat saw fit to level 
against me." 

" But why should you meet him clan- 
destinely in the Woods ? " 

" It was not a clandestine meeting. I 
knew that he intended walking to Saltashe 
from Pashet through the Woods ; a road 
from my house cuts the direction which he 
would be bound to follow, exactly at right 
angles. I wished to speak to him, and it 
saved me a journey all the way to Pashet, or 
him one down to my house. I met him 
at half-past three. We had about fifteen 
minutes' talk ; then I left him and went back 

"What was he doing when you left him ? " 
asked the coroner, with distinct sarcasm. 

" He had sat down on a tree stump and 
was smoking his pipe." 

" You had your gun with you, of course, 
on this expedition through the Woods ? " 

"• I seldom go out without my gun this 
time of year." 

" Quite so," assented the coroner grimly. 
" But what about your dog, who w^as found 
with its head battered in, close to the very 
spot where lay the body of the deceased ? " 

" Poor old ' Rags ' strayed away that 
morning. I did not see him at all that day. 
He certainly was not with me when I went 
to meet old Whadcoat." 

The rapidly spoken questions and answers 
had been listened to by the public and the 
jury with breathless interest. No one 
uttered a sound, but all were watching that 

handsome young man, who seemed, with 
every word he uttered, to incriminate him- 
self more and more. The quarrel, the 
assignation, the gun he was carrying— he 
denied nothing ; but he did protest his 
innocence with all his might. 

One or two people had heard the report 
of a gun whilst walking on one or other of 
the roads that skirt Saltashe Woods, but 
their evidence as to the precise hour was 
unfortunately rather vague. Reports of 
guns in Saltashe Woods were very frequent, 
and no one had taken particular notice. On 
the other hand, the only witness who had 
seen Mr. Edward Kelly entering the wood 
was not ready to swear whether he had his 
dog with him or not. 

Though it had been fully expected ever 
since Jeremiah Whadcoat's posthumous 
epistle had been read, the verdict of *' Wilful 
murder against Edward St. John Kelly" 
found the whole population of Pashet 
positively aghast. Brother of Mr. Kelly, of 
Saltashe Park, the accused was one of the 
most popular figures in this part of Hertford- 
shire. When his subsequent arrest became 
generally known in London, as well as in his 
own county, horror, amazement, and in- 
credulity were quite universal. 


The day after that memorable inquest 
and sensational arrest — namely, on the 
Saturday, I arrived at our dingy old office 
in Finsbury Square at about twelve o'clock, 
after I had seen to some business at Somerset 
House for my esteemed employer. 

I found Skin o' my Tooth curled up in his 
arm-chair before a small fire — as the day was 
wet and cold — just like a great fat and 
frow^sy dog. He waited until I had given 
him a full report of what I had been doing, 
then he said to me — 

" I have just had a visit from Mr. Kelly, 
of Saltashe JPark." 

I was not astonished. That case of 
murder in the Saltashe Woods was just one 
of those wiiich inevitably drifted into the 
hands of Skin o' my Tooth. Though the 
whole aspect of it was remarkably clear, 
instinctively one scented a mystery some- 

" I suppose, sir, that it was on Mr. Edward 
Kelly's behalf ? " 

"Your penetration, Muggins, my boy, 
surpasses human understanding." 

(My name is Alexander Stanislaus Mullins, 
but Skin o' my Tooth will have his little 



" You are going to undertake tlie case, 
sir ? " 

" I am going to get Edward Kelly out of 
the hole his own stupidity has placed him in." 

" It will be by the skin of his teeth if you 
do, sir ; the evidence against him is positively 
crushing," I muttered. 

" xl miss is as good as a mile, where the 
hangman's rope is concerned. Muggins. But 
you had better call a hansom ; we can go 
down to Pashet this afternoon. Edward 
Kelly is ont on bail, and Mr. Kelly tells me 
that I shall find him at Wood tJottage. I 
must get out of him the history of his 
quarrel with the murdered man." 

" Mr. Kelly did not know it ? " 

" Well, anyway, he seemed to think it 
best that the accused should tell me his 
own version of it. In any case, both Mr. 
Kelly and his wife are devoured with anxiety 
about this brother, wdio seems to have been 
a bit of a scapegrace all his life." 

There was no time to say more then, as 
we found that, by hurrying, we could catch 
the 1.5 p.m. train to Pashet. We found 
Mr. Edward Kelly at Wood Cottage, a 
pretty little house on the outskirts of Salt- 
ashe Woods. He had been told of our 
likely visit by his brother. He certainly 
looked terribly ill and like a man over- 
weighted by fate and circumstances. 

I^)Ut he did protest his innocence, 
loudly and emphatically. 

"I am the victim of the most 
damnable circumstances, Mr. Mul- 
ligan," he said ; " but I swear to 
you that I am incapable of such 
a horrible deed." 

" I always take it for granted, 
Mr. Kelly," said Skin o' my 
Tooth blandly, "that my 
client is innocent. If the 
reverse is the case, I prefer 
not to know it. But you 
have to appear before the 
magistrate on Monday. I 
must get a certain amount , 
of evidence on your be- 
half, in order to obtain 
the remand I want. So 
will you try and tell me, as concisely and 
as clearly as possible, what passed between 
you and Mr. Whadcoat the day before the 
murder ? I understand that there was a 

" Old Whadcoat saw fit to accuse me of 
certain defalcations in the firm's banking 
account, of which I w^as totally innocent." 
began Mr. Edward Kelly quietly. " As you 

know, my brother and I are agents in 
England for M. de Kerhoet's champagne. 
Whadcoat was our cashier and book-keeper. 
Twice a year we pay over into M. de Kerhoet's 
bank in Paris the money derived from the 
sale of his wines, after deducting our com- 
mission. In the meanwhile, we have — jointly 
— the full control of the money — that is to 

' IJy Jove I I've fjot 
it, Mu-giii>!"' 

say, all cheques paid to the firm have to be 
endorsed by us both, and all cheques drawn 
on the firm must bear both our signatures. 

" It was just a month before the half- 
yearly settlement of accounts. Whadcoat, 
it appears, went down to the bank, got the 
pass-book and cancelled cheques, and dis- 
covered that some £10,000, the whole of the 
credit balance due next month to M. de 



Kerhoet, had been drawn out of the bank, 
ihe amounts not having been debited in the 

" To my intense amazement, he showed 
me these cheques, and then and there 
accused me of having forged mj brother's 
name and appropriated the firm's money to 
my own use. You see, he knew of certain 
una vowed extravagances of mine which had 
often landed me in financial difficulties 
more or less serious, and which are the real 
cause of my being forced to live in Wood 
Cottage whilst my brother can keep up a 
fine establishment at Saltashe Park: But 
the accusation was preposterous, and I was 
furious with him. I looked at the cheques. 
My signature certainly was perfectly imitated, 
that of my brother perhaps a little less so. 
They were ' bearer ' cheques, made out in a 
replica of old Whadcoat's handwriting to 
' E. de Kerhoet,' and endorsed at the back 
in a small, pointed, foreign hand. 

" Old Whadcoat persisted in his accusa- 
tions, and very high words ensued between 
us. I believe I did threaten to knock him 
down if he did not shut up. Anyway, he 
told me that he would go over the next 
afternoon to Saltashe Park to expose me 
before my brother and M. de Kerhoet, who 
was staying there on a visit to England for 
the shooting. 

"I left him then, meaning to go myself 
that same evening to Saltashe Park and see 
my brother about it ; but on my journey 
home, certain curious suspicions with regard 
to old Whadcoat himself crept up in my 
mind, and then and there I determined to 
try and see him again and to talk the matter 
over more dispassionately with him, in what 
I thought would be his own interests. My 
intention was to make, of course, my brother 
acquainted with the whole matter at once, 
but to leave M. de Kerhoet out of the 
question for the present ; so I wired to 
Whadcoat in the morning to make the 
assignation which has proved such a terrible 

Edward Kelly added that he left Jeremiah 
Whadcoat, after his interview with him by 
the pond, in as excited a frame of mind as 
before. Fearing that his own handwriting 
on the cheques might entail serious con- 
sequences to himself, nothing would do but 
M. de Kerhoet as well as Mr. Kelly must be 
told of the whole thing immediately. 

" When I left him," concluded the young 
man, " he was sitting on a tree stump by the 
pond, smoking his pipe, and I walked away 
towards Wood Cottage." 

" Do you know what became of the 
cheques ? " asked Skin o' my Tooth. 

" Old Whadcoat had them in his pocket 
when I left him. I conclude, as there has 
been no mention of them by the police, that 
they have not been found." 

There was so much simplicity and straight- 
forwardness in Edward Kelly's narrative 
that I, for one, was ready to believe every 
W'Ord of it. But Skin o' my Tooth's face 
was inscrutable. He sat in a low chair with 
his hands folded before him, his eyes shut, 
and a general air of polite imbecility about 
his whole unwieldy person. I could see that 
our client was viewing him with a certain 
amount of irritability. 

" Well, Mr. Mulligan ? " he said at last, 
with nervous impatience. 

" Well, sir," replied Skin o' my Tooth, 
" it strikes me that what with your quarrel 
with the deceased, the assignation in the 
Woods, his posthumous denunciation of you 
as his assassin, and his dying w^ords, we have 
about as complete a case as we could wish." 

" Sir " 

" In all cases of this sort, my dear sir," 
continued Skin o' my Tooth quietly, "the 
great thing is to keep absolutely cool. If 
you are innocent — remember, I do not doubt 
it for a moment — then I will bring that 
crime home to its perpetrator. Justice 
never miscarries— at least, when I have the 
guidance of it in my hands." 

It would be impossible to render the tone 
of supreme conceit with which Skin o' my 
Tooth made this last assertion ; but it 
had the desired effect, for Edward Kelly 
brightened up visibly as he said — 

" I have implicit faith in you, Mr. 
Mulligan. When shall I see you again ? " 

" On Monday, before the magistrate. I 
can get that remand for you, 1 think, and 
then we shall have a free hand. Now we 
had better get along ; I want to have a 
quiet think over this affair." 


On the Monday, Edward Kelly was 
formally charged before the beak ; and I 
must say that when I then heard the 
formidable array of circumstantial evidence 
which the police had collected against our 
client, I sadly began to fear that not even 
by the skin of his teeth would Edward 
Kelly escape from the aw^ful hole in which 
he was literally wallowing. However, Skin 
o' my Tooth hammered away at the police 
evidence with regard to the dog. The 
prosecution made a great point of the fact 



that Mr. Whadcoat and " Rags " had been 
killed bj the same rifle and at the same time 
and place, and the one point in Edward 
Kelly's favour was that neither his servants 
at Wood Cottage, nor the witness who saw 
him enter the wood, could swear that the 
dog was with him on that day. On the 
strength of that, and for the purpose of 
collecting further evidence with regard to 
the dog, Skin o' my Tooth finally succeeded 
in obtaining a remand until the following 
Friday. * 

Personally, I thought that there was quite 
sufficient evidence for hauging any man, 
without the testimony of the dead dog, but 
I am quite aware that my opinion counts for 
very little. 

" Now, Muggins," said Skin o' my Tooth 
to me later in the day, " the fun is about to 
begin. You go down to Coutts's this after- 
noon and find out all about those cheques 
which caused the quarrel, and by whom 
they were presented. Don't mix the police 
up in our affairs, whatever you do. If there 
is anything you can't manage, get Fairburn 
to help you ; he is discretion itself and 
hates the regular force. Beyond that, try 
and work alone." 

I had done more difficult jobs than that 
before now, and Skin o' my Tooth knows he 
can rely on me. I left him curled up in an 
arm-chair with a French novel in his hand 
and started on my quest. I got to Coutts's 
just before closing time, saw the chief 
cashier and explained my errand and its 
importance to him, asking for his kind help 
in the matter. He was courteous in the 
extreme, and within a few moments I had 
ascertained from him that cheques on Kelly 
and Co.'s account, perfectly en regie ^ and 
made out to " E. de Kerhoet, or Bearer," 
had been cashed on certain dates which he 
gave me. They were in each instance 
presented by a commissionaire in uniform, 
who brought a card — "M. Edouard de 
Kerhoet," with " Please give bearer amount 
in £5 notes," scribbled in pencil in the 
same handwriting as the endorsement on 
the cheques. 

" The amounts varied between £1,200 
and £3,000," continued the cashier, still 
referring to . his book. " Being ' bearer ' 
cheques, and signed in the usual manner, 
we had no occasion to doubt them, and of 
course w^e cashed them. The first cheque 
was drawn on July 3rd, and the last on 
August 29th." 

The cashier added one more detail which 
fairly staggered me — namely, that the com- 

missionaire wore a cap with " Kelly and Co." 
embroidered upon it. If necessary, there 
were plenty of cashiers and clerks at the 
bank who could identify him. He was a 
tall man of marked foreign appearance, with 
heavy black hair, beard and moustache cut 
very trim. On one occasion when he left, 
he dropped a bit of paper which contained 
the name " Yan Wort, Turf Commission 
Agent, Flushing, Holland." 

1 thanked the cashier and took my leave. 

When I got back to the office, I found 
Skin o' my Tooth placidly sleeping in his 
big arm-chair. I had had a hard day and 
was dead tired, and for the moment when I 
saw him there, looking so fat, so pink, and 
so comfortable, well — I have a great respect 
for him, but I really felt quite angry. 

However, I told him w^hat I had done. 

" Capital ! capital. Muggins ! " lie ejacu- 
lated languidly. " But, by Jove ! that's a 
clever rascal. That touch about the name on 
the cap is peculiarly happy and daring. It 
completely allayed the suspicions of the 
cashiers at Coutts's. Now, listen, Muggins," 
he added, with that sudden, quick-changing 
mood of his which in a moment transformed 
him from the lazy, apathetic Irish lawyer 
*to the weird human bloodhound who scents 
the track. '' That foreign commissionaire is 
a disguise, of course ; the cap hides the edge 
of the wig and shades the brow, the black 
beard and moustache conceal the mouth and 
chin, the foreign accent disguises the voice. 
We may take it, therefore, that the thief and 
his ambassador are one and the same person 
— a man, moreover, well known at Coutts's, 
since disguise was necessary. I)o you 
follow me. Muggins ? And remember, the 
motive is there. The man who defrauded 
Kelly and Co. is the same who mur- 
dered Whadcoat later on. Whadcoat was 
effectually silenced, the tell-tale cheques have 
evidently been destroyed. There would 
have been silence and mystery over the 
whole scandal, until the defalcations could 
be made good, but for Whadcoat's letter to 
the coroner and his dying words : ' The 
letter . . . Kelly . . . Edward . . . the 
other ....'" He paused suddenly and 
seemed lost in thought, then he muttered — 

" It's that confounded dog I can't quite 
make out ! . . . Did Edward Kelly, after 
all . . ." 

It was that great " after all ! " which had 
puzzled me all along. " Was Edward Kelly 
guilty, after all ? " I had asked myself that 
question a hundred times a day. Then, as I 
was silent — lost in conjectures over this 



extraordinary, seemingly impenetrable mys- 
tery—he suddenly jumped up and shouted — 
" By Jove ! I've got it, Muggins ! ' The 
other.' What a fool I have been ! Go to 
bed, my boy ; I want a rest, too. To- 



"'I did kill old Whadcoat in a 
moment of unreasoning fear.' " 

morrow will be time enough to think about 
' the other.' " 


From that moment Skin o' my Tooth was 
^i transformed being. He always is when lie 

has got a case " w-ell in hand," as he calls it. 
He certainly possesses a weird faculty for 
following up the trail of blood. Once he 
holds w^hat he believes to be a clue, his 
whole appearance changes ; his great, fat 
body seems, as it were, to crouch together 
ready for a spring, and there is a weird 
quiver about his 
nostrils which pal- 
pably suggests the 
bloodhound ; only 
his eyes remain in- 
scrutably hidden 
beneath their thick 
and fleshy lids. 

It was twelve 
o'clock the next 
day when our train 
steamed into Pashet 
station. We had a 
fly from there and 
drove down to 
Saltashe Park, the 
lordly country seat 
of Mr. Kelly. 

At the door. Skin 
o' my Tooth asked 
for the master of 
the house ; but hear- 
ing that he Avas out, 
he requested that 
his card might be 
taken in to Mrs. 
Kelly. The next 
moment we _ were 
ushered into a lux- 
uriously furnished 
library, full of 
books and flow^ers, 
and wi th deep 
mullioned windows 
opening out upon a 
Queen Anne ter- 

The mistress of 
the house — an ex- 
ceedingly beautiful 
woman, received us 
with every mark of 
eagerness and cor- 

She welcomed us 
— or, rather, my 
esteemed employer — most efPusively ; and 
when we were all seated, she asked many 
questions about Mr. Edward Kelly, to which 
Skin o' my Tooth replied as often as she 
allowed him to get a w^ord in. 

"Oh, Mr. Mulligan," she said finally, "I 




am so glad that jon asked to see me I 
have been positively ill and devoured with 
anxiety about my brother-m-law. My hus- 
band thinks that 1 upset myself and onl}' 
get hopelessly wretched if I read about it all 
in the papers, so he won't allow me to see 
one now ; but, I assure you, the uncertainty 
is killing me, as I feel sure that Mr. Kelly 
is trying to comfort me and t.o make 
Edward's case appear more hopeful than 
it is." 

Skin o' my Tooth gravely shopk his head. 

" It could not very w^ell be more hope- 
less," he said. 

" You can't mean that ? " she said, while 
tears gathered in her eyes. " He is innocent, 
Mr. Mulligan. I swear he is innocent. You 
don't know him. He never would do any- 
thing so vile." 

" I quite believe that, my dear lady ; but 
unfortunately circumstances are terribly 
against him. Even his dead dog, 'Rags,' 
speaks in dumb eloquence in his master's 

"*Eags! ' she exclaimed in astonishment — 
" what can the poor doggie have to do with 
this awful tragedy ? Poor old thing ! it lost 
its way the very morning that the terrible 
catastrophe occurred. M. de Kerhoet was 
staying here that day, and I had taken him 
for a drive to Hitching before luncheon. 
On the way home I saw * Rags ' in the 
road, looking very sorry for himself. I 
took him in the carriage with me and 
brought him home." 

Skfn o' my Tooth looked politely inter- 
ested, but I hardly liked to breathe ; it 
seemed to me that a fellow creature's life 
was even now hanging in the balance. 

" ' Rags ' knew us all here just as well as 
it did its own master," continued Mrs, 
Kelly ; " and when my husband went out 
with his gun in the afternoon, ' Rags ' 
followed him, whilst M. de Kerhoet and I 
went on to a garden-party." 

" And what happened to ' Rags ' after 
that ? " asked Skin o' my Tooth. 

" To tell you the truth, the awful tragedy 
I heard of that afternoon drove poor ' Rags ' 
out of my mind ; then the next day, I am 
thankful to say, M. de Kerhoet left us and 
went back to Paris. I did hear something 
about the poor dog being drowned in the 
pond ; he w^as a shocking rover, and really 
more trouble than pleasure to his master." 

Mrs. Kelly w^as sitting W'ith her back to 
the great mullioned windows ; she could not, 
therefore, see her husband, who seemed to 
have just walked across the terrace and to 

have paused a moment, with his hand on the 
open wmdow, before entermg the room 
Whether he had heard what his wife was 
saying, 1 did not know ; certain it is that 
his face looked very white and set. 

" 1 remember now," continued Mrs. Kelly 
innocently, " seeing my husband put away 
* Rags' ' collar the other day in his bureau. 
1 dare say Edward will be glad to have it 
later on, when all this horrid business is 
over. You must tell him that we have got 
it quite safe." 

I all but uttered an exclamation then. It 
seemed too horrible to hear this young wife 
so hopelessly and innocently denouncing her 
own husband with every word she uttered. 
I looked up at the motionlessly figure still 
standing in the window. Skin o' my Tooth, 
who sat immediately facing it, seemed to 
make an almost imperceptible sign of 
warning. Mr. Kelly then retired as silently 
as he had come. 

Two minutes later he entered the room 
by the door. He seemed absolutely calm 
and collected, and held out his hand to 
Skin o' my Tooth, who took it without the 
slightest hesitation ; then Mr. Kelly turned 
to his wife and said quietly — 

" You will forgive me, won't you, dear, 
if I take Mr. Mulligan into my study ? 
There are one or two points I want to discuss 
with him over a cigar." 

" Oh ! I'll run away," she said gaily. " I 
must dress for luncheon. You'll stay, won't 
you, Mr. Mulligan ? No ? I am so sorry ! 
Well, good-bye ; and mind you bring better 
news next time." 

She was gone, and we three men w^ere left 
alone. I offered to leave the room, but Mr. 
Kelly motioned me to stay. 

" The servants would wonder," he said 
icily, " and it really does not matter." 

Then he turned to Skin o' my Tooth and 
said quietly — 

" I suppose that you came here to-day for 
the express purpose of setting a trap for my 
wife ; and she fell into it, poor soul ! not 
knowing that she was damning her own 
husband. Of course, you did your duty by 
your client. Now, what is your next move ? " 
" To place Mrs. Kelly in the witness-box 
on my client's behalf, and make her repeat 
the story she told us to-day," replied Skin 
o' my Tooth with equal calm. 
" And after that ? " 

"After that, you must look to yourself, 
Mr. Kelly. I am not a detective, and you 
know best whether you have anything to 
fear when once the attention of the police 



is directed upon yourself. I shall obtain 
Mr. Edward Kelly's discharge to-morrow, 
of course. Backed by Mrs. Kelly's testimony, 
and, if need be, that of Mr. Kerhoet, in 
Paris, I can now prove that the dog could 
not have been shot by my client, since it 
was following you on the afternoon that the 
murder was committed. Since the chief 
point in the theory of the prosecution lies in 
the fact that Mr. Whadcoat and the dog 
were shot on the same day and with the same 
rifle, and seeing that the animal's collar was 
known to be in your possession the day 
following the crime, my client is absolutely 
sure to obtain a full discharge and to be 
allowed to leave the court without a stain 
upon his character." 

Mr. Kelly had listened to Skin o' my 
Tooth's quiet explanation without betraying 
the slightest emotion ; then he said — 

" Thank you, Mr. Mulligan. I think I 
quite understand the situation. Personally, 
I feel that it is entirely for the best ; life 
under certain conditions becomes abominable 
torture, and I have no strength left with 
which to combat fate. I did kill old Whad- 
coat in a moment of unreasoning fear, just 
as I killed ' Rags ' because he made too 
much noise ; but, by Heaven ! I had no 
intention to kill the old man, and I certainly 
would never have allowed my brother to 
suffer seriously under an unjust accusation. 
I firmly believed that justice could not 
miscarry ; and while I thought that you were 
sharp enough to save him, I also reckoned 
that I had been clever enough to shield 
myself from every side." 

He paused a moment and then continued ; 
just like a man who for a long time has been 
burdened with a secret and is suddenly made 
almost happy by confiding it to a stranger. 

" I had had many losses on the turf," he 
said, " and had made my losses good by 
defrauding our firm. It was a long and 
laborious plan, very carefully laid ; but I was 
always clever with my pen, and my brother's 
signature and Whadcoat's writing were easy 
enough to imitate. Then, one day, I found 
an old uniform in the cellar at the office — 
my father used to keep a commissionaire when 
he had the business. It was about my size 
and gave me the idea for the disguise. It 
all worked right, and I knew that I could 
make my defalcations good at the bank very 
soon. It w^as a positive thunderbolt to me 

when, on the Tuesday morning, I received a 
letter from old Whadcoat, telling me that he 
was coming over to Saltashe that afternoon 
to see M. de Kerhoet and myself about a 
terrible discovery which he had just made. 
I knew that he would walk through the 
Woods, and I found him sitting near the 
pond, smoking, alone. I only meant to 
persuade him to hold his tongue and say 
nothing to M. de Kerhoet for the present. 
But he was obstinate ; he guessed that I w^as 
guilty ; he threatened me with disclosure, like 
the fool he was, and I had to kill him .... 
in self-defence." 

Somehow, although he undoubtedly was 
a great criminal, I could not help sym- 
pathising with this man. The beautiful house 
we were in, all the luxury and comfort with 
which he was outwardly surrounded, seemed 
such terrible mockery beside the moral 
tortures he must have endured. I was quite 
glad when he had finished speaking, and 
Skin o' my Tooth was able presently to take 
his leave. 

Only a few hours later, the evening papers 
were full of the sensational suicide of 
Mr. Kelly in his library at Saltashe Park. 
Almost at the same time that this astonish- 
ing news was published in the Press, the 
authorities at Scotland Yard had received a 
written confession, signed by Mr. Kelly, in 
which he confessed to having caused the 
death of Mr. Jeremiah Whadcoat in Salt- 
ashe Woods, by the accidental discharge of 
his gun. 

A little frightened at first of any compli- 
cations that might arise, he had said nothing 
al)out the accident at the time ; then, when 
his own brother became implicated in the 
tragedy, and he felt how terrible his own 
position would be if he now made a tardy 
confession, the matter began to prey upon 
his mind until it became so unhinged that 
he sought, in death, solace from his mental 

"That man was a genius," was Skin o' my 
Tooth's comment upon this confession. 
" Strange that he should have lost his nerve 
at the last, for I feel sure that the crime 
would never have been brought absolutely 
home to him ; at any rate, /could always 
have got him off. What do you think, 
Muggins ? " 

And I quite agreed with Skin o' my 



At Dinner. 

The Motheb. A little more pudding, Fred ? 

Fred (impatmitli/). No, tlfanks. 

The Mother. Effie, a little more ? 

Effie (^ivho is only four ^ and always liungnj). Yes, fank you. 

Fred {(jloomihj), I wonder that kid doesn't get ill, the amount she eats. Oh, mother ! 
only give her half that. She'll take all day to eat it. 

Effie (taking her plate with hoth hands). Zust you let me 'lone, Fvveddie Willoughby. 

Edith {aHth a defiant looli at Fred). Pass the bananas, please. Jack. I'm going to have 
one with cream and strawberry jam. 

Fred (imploringly). Eat it out in the garden in your fingers, Edie — go on — it's 
ever so much nicer. 

Edith (obstinately, and helping herself to jam). I won't. Fm going to sit here and eat 
it if it takes me ten minutes. I wonder we all haven't got frightful indigestion ever since 
you got that stupid camera. You never let us finish a meal in peace. 

Fred (wretchedly). But the sun goes so quickly. Don't be a little sneak, Edie. Look, 
there are clouds coming up ; I won't be able to take any if you aren't quick. Oh, mater ! I 
do think you might let me go — it doesn't do anyone any good for me to stick here when I've 

The Mother (decisively). I can't, laddie. If I let you leave before everyone has 
finished, I could never keep order. Jack would want to be rushing off for his marbles, and 
Effie for her skipping-rope, and Edie for her new book. 

Fred (with a fierce look at Edith). Edie I She'd like to sit here and stuff bananas all 

The Mother. Fred ! You can have a hobby and still be a gentleman. 

Fred (groaning). But, mother, you don't know how important it is to have the sun. I 
don't care hoiv much they all eat at tea, but they might hurry up now. I'm at school all the 
blessed week, and Saturday afternoon's all the chance I get. Just look at the sun. 

The Mother {looking at the clock). Dear lad, it is hardly half -past one ; you have six 
good hours before dark. 

Fred (exeitedlg). You don't understand, mother. It isn't just light I want, it is the 
direct rays of the sun. I can't take time exposures — not with our family — they won't sit 
still a second. For snapshots you've got to get them right in the sun. 

The Mother (uncertainly). Well, I think we "have all finished now, haven't we, 
children ? 

Edie (aggravatingly). I'll have another banana, please. They are lovely ones. Won't 
you have another. Jack ? Enid, look, here is a big one for you. 

Jack (ivho is under Fred's thumb — sadly). No, thank you. 

Enid (who always does as Jack does — sadly). No, thank you. 

Edie (slicing up her fruit tvith extreme deliberation). I always think this is such a 
delicious way of eating bananas. 

The Mother (rising). Well, you shall enjoy it all by yourself, my dear. 

Fred (making relievedly for the door). Good old mum ! 

Out in the Garden. 

Fred. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute. Here, mother, you sit down on this seat — 
no, not leaning back ; just on the edge, then Effie can stixnd up behind you. I want to 
get a group of all of you. Here, Effie—here, come along—don't go away ; come and 
get up here. 



Effie {ivho is inclined to he spoiled), S'ant. I wants to dig my garden wif my new 
little digger. 

Fred. No, no — you can dig it afterwards. Come here and get up near mother. 
Mother, make her come ! 

The Mother {coaxingltj). Here, come here, darling, and mother will tell you about the 
Prince with Three Eyes. 

Effie {digging industriouslg). AVhen I go to bed, you can tell me. 


ately). Go and get 
her. Jack. 

The Mother 
{gently). Suppose 
you settle the rest 
of us first, dear, 
and get her at the 
last moment ? 

-Fred. All right; 
p'r'aps it will be 
best. Where's Edie? 
Oh, dear ! this is 
vexing — now she's 
gone ! 

The Mother. 
She won't be a 
second, dear ; she 
has gone in to get 
Baby, while nurse 
has her dinner. Of 
course you must 
take Baby, too ; she 
can sit on my knee. 
And here come 
Ellie and Mr. Har- 
graves — you will 
have us all. 

Fred. All right. 
Here, Enid, we'll 
get you in place. 
You can sit on the 
grass and lean 
against mother's 

Enid. Where's 
Jack going to be ? 

Fred {consider- 
inglg). He can stand 
behind the seat, 
just behind Effie. 

Enid. I want 
to sJband behind the 

Fred. Don't be silly, Enid. You sit down there — somebody must be on the grass. 
Enid. Well, let Jack sit on the grass, too. 

Fred. I can't. I want him to stand. Don't be so tiresome, Enid. 
Enid {struck hj a brilliant notion). Tell you. Til be standing on Jack's shoulders— hke 
we play circus. I can hold on to the tree. 

Fred {losing his temper). Sit down on the grass when I tell you, and mind your own 

Enid. All right. Cranky-books. Now I'll poke my tongue out in the middle of it. 

And the group has aU to be made up again ! " 


The Mother. There, there, Enid, Fred knows best how we shall all sit. Do as he asks 
you, dear. Freddy, boy, don'fc lose your temper ; it is only pleasure, you know. 

Fred {sighing). But you don't know how annoying it is when they ivill argue so that 
they know best. Don'fc stick your leg out like that, Enid. Can't you sit on it ? Pull your 
dress right over your boot. 

Enid {jgiggling). R'mber that photo he took of Baby, and her foot was bigger than all 
of her ? 

Fred (toucMlg). It was only the third I had taken, and he stuck his foot right out of 

Enid (giggling). R'mber that one he took and Effie's face came out right in the middle 
of the Mitchells's cow, and the cow was upside down ? 

Fred (colouring). Anyone might make a mistake like that. I suppose you were all 
jabbering so I didn't notice I was using the same plate twice. Hallo, Mr. Hargraves ! you're 
just in time to be taken with Ellie. Well, it'll be a treat to have two people, at any rate, 
who'll stand where I tell them. You go behind the seat, and Ellie can sit by mother. No, 
that's wrong ; don't go next to Ellie. 

Hargraves (moving ohediently from the jjlace he had taken). What's that about Effie and 
somebody's cow ? 

Fred. Oh ! only some of Enid's rot ! 

Enid, Once he took a photo, Mr. Hargraves ; and when it came out, there was a cow — 
the next-door cow, Mr. Mitchell's, you know — and it was standing on its head, and Effie's face 
was right in the middle of it. 

Fred. I wish you'd hold your tongue, Enid, and just sit still. It was when I was 
learning, Mr. Hargraves, and I took two photos on one plate, that was all. 

Hargraves (sympatheticallg). I've done the same thing myself, old fellow. 

Enid. R'mber that one when he took the kittens, and left his own leg some way in the 
picture ? 

Ellie. That was a funnier one, Fred, that time you took a snapshot in George Street, 
and tilted your camera so that all the buildings seemed to be falling over. And he tried to 
persuade us, Dick, he did it to get an " earthquake effect." 

Fred (viciously). That was a funnier one, Ellie, that I took down behind the summer- 
house, and Mr. .Hargraves seemed to think you were falling over. At any rate, he was 
holding you up. 

Ellie (blushing furiously). There is a difference between fun and rudeness, Fred. It 
was very mean and unkind of you to do such a thing. (Jumps up and goes away ^followed hy 
Hargraves^ trying to soothe her.) 

The Mother (straightening her face with an effort). Fred, that was very unkind of you. 

Fred (grinning). Pell in ! What a lark ! I never took them yet, mater ; I only guessed 
at it. 

The Mother. You young scamp ! Mr. Hargraves ought to deal with you. 

Fred. Here, sit still, Enid. Where are you going ? I)o you hear ? Sit down !, 

The Mother. Really, it is enough to turn your hair grey, my boy. Enid, that is too 
bad of you after Fred has put you in a good position. -f 

Enid. I must just run and tell Ellie he didn't. She looked nearly 'zif she'd cry. 

The Mother. No, sit down ; it is too late to mend matters now. Ah ! here 
is Edith with Baby. Give him to me. Now, Little Boy Blue, sit very still, and look 
over there— see ! Oh! look there. Jump about a little, Fred ; I should like him to 
come out smiling. 

Fred. I'm not quite ready for expressions yet. You needn't put on your company 
smile for a minute, Edith. And don't fluff your hair all over the place like that ; you're hiding 
Jack's face. Can't you tie it Jback or something ? 

Edith (tvho has been at some pains to pull her long curls over her shoulders). Let Jack sit 
somewhere else. I'm all right here — or I'll go there if you like. 

Fred. Right in front of mother ! No, you don't. You always try to get where you 
show the most. Sit down on the grass with Enid. 

Edith. I won't. I hate sitting down. 

Jack. Yah ! Wants her dress to show 'cause she's got a sash on. 

Edith. I don't. You're a rude little boy, Jack. I'm going to stand here, Fred. If I 
sit down, Enid's right in front of me. 


Fred {resigmdly). Well, go on. But what are you doing with that umbrella ? Don't 
be a donkey — put it away. 

Edith {openinfj her red sunshade and striking a languid attitude })emath it). I w^ant to be 
taken with it. Why shouldn't I ? It will look as nice as anything. 

Fred. You will. You'll come out as black as a coal with a shadow over your face like 
that. For goodness sake shut it up and let me get on. Now, are you all ready ? Hold your 
head up,' Enid— now — oh 1 keep that kid still, mother. 

The Mother (gently). Don't forget to make him laugh, Fred. 

Fred (cuttfig an anxious caper or two). Hi, there ! — hi, there ! — Methasaleh~dum-di- 

dum ! Now, don't move, anyone — keep just as you are — now 

The Mother is vainly trying to keep Baby from crawling over her shoulder ; Edith is 
looking simperingly at the camera; Jack is frowning ferociously ; Edith is giggling ; 
but Fred's finger is just pressing the release of the shutter^ when a scream of anger 
is heard, and the forgotten Effie rushes reproachfully right into the picture. 

Effie. I wants to be tooken, Fwed — let me be tooken, Fweddie. 
And the group has all to be made up again. 

In the Bathroom. 

Darkness reigns, broken only by a gleam from the red lantern. Fred is developing his 

afternoon^ plates, and Eric Mitchell, the next-door boy, icho also has a camera, is 
looking on. 

Fred. Chuck us the pyro — it's in an oyster bottle under the seat. This blessed 
plate's over-exposed ! I was afraid it would be. 

Eric (groping carefully about). Here you are. What a blessed lot of bottles you've got ! 

Fred (in a superior way). I mix my own developers. There's nothing in it if you 
buy everything ready in the shop. A chap I know just gets those little bottles of ready- 
made powders, and all he knows is he has to put equal quantities' of No. 1 and 
No. 2, and his developer is ready. 

Eric (uncomfortably). What do you do ? 

Fred (rocMng his plate carefully). I do them myself, of course. I keep the pyro 
in that pickle-bottle near the water-heater. Those wine bottles up there, near the 
hnen-press, hold the metabisulphite. Then, of course, you've got to have your 
accelerators. I don't believe in ammonia, do you ? Not with pyro. I use soda. You 
learn a thing or two as you go along. I used to stick in potassium bromide, but 
Hargraves — he's a toff at it, you know — he put me up to not using it, if you've 
used ammonia as your accelerator; ammonia bromide's the thing then. 

Eric (much impressed). What a lot you know about it. Stumpy ! 

Fred (modestly). Oh! I have got a good deal to learn yet. But you must be rather a 
dab at it yourself. Those were very gaudy negatives of yours — those of the men-o'-war 
in Farm Cove, and the Manly boats. I've not done any yet as good as those. You 
didn't get them developed for you, did you ? 

Eric. Not quite. I'd as soon get someone to take the things — wouldn't you ? 

Fred. Rather. But I say, what proportions do you use ? You seem just to hit it. 
I use ten per cent, solutions always. 

Eric (ashamedly). I — er — er — oh ! I've been using the ready-made things, too ; but 
I think I'll have to go in for mixing them myself. 

Enid (outside the door). Fred, Elbe says she can't wait any longer, and you'll 
have to come out of the bathroom. 

Fred. Just look at this blessed thing, Splodger ! It's frilling vilely. 

Eric (examining it critically). You'd better get some methylated spirits. 

Fred. Shove it over to me. Isn't it there ? In a little can ? Hang it all ! I 
suppose nurse has carted it away again. I wish she'd let it alone. Enid ! — hi ! are you 
there, Enid ? No, don't push the door open. Cut into the nursery and get the 
methylated spirits for me. They'll be in the cupboard, near Baby's food- warmer. 
^^ Enid (a note of nervousness in her voice). It's all dark along the passage, Fred. 
Someone has turned the gas out. 

Fred (impatiently). Of course it is. Do you think I can have the light coming in 
iiere through the cracks ? Out along ! Nothing can hurt you, 


Enid {shutting her eyes and runnmg along very hard). All right, I'll get it. 

Fred {holding his negatives one after the other to the light). This one's going to be 
good, I'm sure. See how sharp the trees are. Look at this one, Splodger. It would 
have been A 1, only that little donkey Effie ran into it just as I let go. I don't quite 
understand this one. What's it look like to you ? 

Enid. Oh-h-h— ugh-h-h—Freddie ! {Noise of falling and spilling outside.) 

Fred {letting himself out of the smallest possible aperture in the door). Now what have 
you done ? 

Enid {clinging to him). There was a black man running after me ! 

Fred. Don't be such a little goose ! Where's the can ? Good Heavens ! you've spilt 
every drop, and there's no more in the house ! 

Enid {sobbing bitterly), fie had almost catched me by my hair. Oh, Freddie ! don't go 
away ! 

Fred {swallowing his disappointment like a man, and hissing her fright atvay). Poor 
old Toddles ! Never mind. If you sit very still, you may come in and watch us. Now mind 
where you walk— look out, don't knock that pie-dish over. Steady, there's a soup-plate in 
that corner. You can sit on the edge of the bath, but you mustn't move an inch, old girl. 

Eric. We might be able to manage with alum, Stumpy. {Breathless silence during the 

Edith {outside door). Fred, you are to come out of that at once. Ellie is waiting to 
bath the children ; you know nurse has gone out. She is frightfully angry with you. Come 
out this minute. 

Fred. Oh, good Heavens, Edie! I can't ; I'm doing scmiething most awfully important. 
Tell her I won't be long ; let her bath the kids somewhere else. 

Edith. I'm very sure. What is the use of having a bathroom, I'd like to know ? You 
seem to think it's just made for your silly photos. I'm coming in. 

Fred. Lock the door, Splodger, quick ! 

Eric {turning the key with difficulty). Only just in time, by George ! 

Edith. Frederick Willoughby, are you going to let me in ? 

Fred. Edith Marion Willoughby— no, I am not. 

Edith. Oh, very well. {A minute'' s silence). 

Fred. The little cat ! She's lit the gas. Quick, quick, Splodger ! stuff those towels 
along the crack. Edie, Edie! I'll give you anything you like if you'll turn it off. Every- 
thing's spoiling. In the press, Splodger ; look sharp— sheets, blankets — anything that'll 
cover the ventilator. 

Eric {hastily turning a big foot-bath over several of the plates). That's better. Now let's 
stuff everything over the bath ; the light'll get in underneath. 

Enid {eagerly tearing off her pinafore). Here's something, Eric ; and here's my hand- 
kerchief, too. 

Fred {dragging spotless blankets out of the press and carrying them to the bath). These 
won't let in much. 

Edith {outside). Perhaps you'll do as you're asked another time, Frederick Willoughby. 

Ellie {outside). Fred, my dear old fellow, I can't wait another second. I must have 
the room now, 

Fred {imploringly). Ellie, like an angel, turn out that beastly gas, will you ? And choke 

Ellie. Bid you light it, Edith ? What an abominable thing to do ! That better, 
Fred ? 

Fred. Rather. You're a duck, Ellie ! 

Ellie. No, you won't say I am, for I really must have the room, old boy. Poor little 
Effie's asleep on the hearthrug, and Jack is next door to it. 

Fred. Tell them a story, Ellie ; that'll keep them chirpy. 

Ellie. But it is eight o'clock. They all ought to be asleep by this ; and there are the 
baths to come first. I don't know what mother would say if she were at home. 

Fred. Dearest darling ! couldn't you bath them somewhere else ? Just for once, do it 
in the nursery. 

Ellie. It would wake Baby up. 

Edith. I am surprised you stay arguing with him, Ellie. Just order him to come out ; 
that's wh^-t pu ought to do, 



Fred. No one asked you to speak, Miss Cat ! 

Ellie. You wouldn't like poor Baby to be waked, Fred, would you ? 
Fred. Well, bath them in the kitchen, darling angel ! That's a lovely place. You'd like 
to be bathed in the kitchen, wouldn't you. Toddles ? 
Enid. Eather. 

Ellie. But Emma is sitting there, and she has her young man with her. We can't 
interrupt her. 

Fred. Sweet, lovely, dearest Ellie ! couldn't you do without bathing them at all ? They 

can't be so very dirty ; they 
have a cold bath every morn- 
ing, like the rest of us. You're 
not very dirty, are you, 
Toddles ? 

Enid {stoutly). No ; I 
am as clean as clean, Ellie, 
truly, really. Even my hands 
are clean. 

Edith. Ellie, I am sur- 
prised at you. If you give 
in to that boy, I shan't think 
much of you. And look at 
the trick he served you, 
taking you and Mr. Hargraves 
like that. Just pay him out. 

Ellie. This happens to 
be my business, Edie. Dear 
Fred, would ten minutes 
more be enough for you ? 
I could be undressing Effie 
just here in the spare room. 

Fred. Angel of my life ! 
go anywhere but in the spare 
room. I've stood a lot of 
plates in there to dry against 
the wall. 

Ellie. Well, I will un- 
dress her downstairs, if ten 
minutes will see the end of 
this darkness. 

Fred. Half an hour, 
precious duckie ! Just one 
little half hour. Go and 
write him a letter— think how 
glad he'll be to have it — and 
by the time you've finished 
you can have five hundred 

Ellie {despairingly), T 

can't wait half an hour. 

The chicks would not be in 

bed till ten. 

By Jove, Stumpy ! it's a stunner, this one ! — the best of 

' ' There was a black man running after me 

Eric. It's coming along grand, 
the lot. We'd better get it out. 

Fred. Darling, darling, come in, will you ? Just you ; don't let that little spitfire in. 
Tread carefully — that's a pie-dish — here, don't smash the soup-plates. Just take that negative 
out, will you ? Stumpy's and my fingers are all over this beastly stufT. Steady ; don't drip 
anywhere. Look out ! If you get a drop in that dish, you'll spoil the whole lot of stuff. 
That's right— there — that's grand ! You pick them up first rate. Ell. Now put him under the 
tap— move him about— here, that'll do. Now, hold him up to the light— urn ! it's very good. 


Ellib. Those clouds — they are clouds, aren't they ?— look very clear and good. 

Fbed. That's Edie's hair blowing out. Notice how sharp the leaves of the camphor 
laurel are. 

Ellie. And the garden-seat. How funny Baby looks — just like a pickaninny ! 

Fred. Give it another wash. There, that'll do ; now rear it against the skirting-board to 
drain. And clear out now, Ell, will you ? I can't get on with you under my feet. I really 
won't be long ; but you can see how important it is, can't you ? 

Ellie. Oh, yes, plainly. "VT'ell, look here, young man, just for once I'll put off the warm 
baths till to-morrow night : but after this you must make a dark-room somewhere else. You 
will, won't you, boy ? It is really very awkward. 

Fred. I'll see what I can do. You're not half a bad sort, Ellie. You can stop here 
and watch tne develop, one of these nights, if you like. 


'117HEN Love comes in, why, there's nothing else to do 

But dream by day and dream by night and dream the dream is true; 

To lose the old romances, 

The thrill of olden glances, 
As birds who feel the rain at noon forget the morning dew; 

To let the mind go Maying 

In ways where One is straying, 
To set the seal on days gone by and think it little sin; 

To plan the time of meeting, 

The parting and the greeting— 
There's really nothing else to do when Love comes in. 

When Love goes out, why, there's nothing else to do 

But sigh a bit and smile a bit and watch him pass from view; 

To free the heart of traces 

Of sweet words and embraces, 
To brush aside the dust of dreams and sweep the heart anew ; 

Then set the latch a-swinging 

Where new Love may come winging 
And pause a moment at the sill and shyly glance about; 

To give the greeting due him, 

And laugh a welcome to him — 
There's really nothing else to do when Love goes out. 






IT is fitting that a great discovery touch- 
ing the treatment and cure of certain 
diseases by light alone should be given 
the world by a man who lived in Iceland 
until he was twenty-one, and knew through 
all his boyhood the depressing influence of 
too much night. One of the first things 
Finsen said when I went to see him last 
summer in Copenhagen was this, and he 
said it with touching humility : " All that I 
have accomplished in my experiments with 
light, and all that I have learned about its 
therapeutic value, has come because I needed 
the light so much myself. I longed for 
it so." 

The story of Finsen's achievement is 
another instance of success growing out of 
apparent failure, and strength out of weak- 
ness. For, after studying medicine for eight 
years at the Copenhagen University, he took 
his doctor's degree in 1890 (at the age of 
thirty) only to find himself so stricken in 
body, with heart, liver, and digestive organs 
all affected, that it was out of the question 
for him ever to practise his profession. So 
he turned to the work that offered, and for 
three years filled the modest post of preceptor 
in anatomy at the University, his health con- 
tinuing as bad as possible. Thus in 1893 
the Finsen whose fame to-day is celebrated 
through all the scientific world was a poor 
and obscure instructor in a little Danish 

During these three years, however, Finsen 
did more than teach anatomy ; his spare 
time, his thoughts, and any strength he had 
after the day's work, were occupied with 
observations and experiments destined soon 
to rob small-pox of its ugliest terror, the 
scarring of the face. Not that he started 
with any such aim, or had small-pox par- 
ticularly in mind at first ; he started with 
light and a study of its physiological action : 
Can light do any good to the body ? can light 
do any harm to the body ? — a subject of in- 
vestigation at that time almost entirely 
neglected. But he came presently to such 


important conclusions as to the influence of 
light in certain eruptive diseases, notably 
small-pox, that before the end' of 1893 great 
doctors in various parts of Europe were 
listening with respect and w^onder to this 
startling message from Copenhagen. 

It was a simple enough line of reasoning 
that led Finsen to his first discovery. He 
found that if a number of earthworms ai-e 
placed in an oblong box covered half with 
red glass and half with blue glass, they will 
always crawl away from tlie blue light and 
seek shelter in the red light. In blue light 
they are restless and ill at ease, in red light 
they lie still, perfectly content. 

Finsen took note also of a curious experi- 
ment with the chameleon, which consists in 
placing this little animal so that half of its 
body is under blue glass and the other half 
.under red glass, the result being that one 
half of the chameleon turns almost black 
under the blue light, while the other half 
remains almost white under the red light. 
Which means, explained Finsen, that the 
chameleon uses its movable pigment cells to 
protect itself against the disagreeable effects 
of blue light. 

And the summing up of these and hun- 
dreds of similar observations was that, of the 
various colours composing ordinary sunshine, 
the blue or actinic rays — sometimes also 
called the "chemical" rays— including violet 
and ultra-violet, are the only ones that have 
any noteworthy physiological effect upon 
animal life. The red rays have none at all, 
the others scarcely any. All that the red or 
heat rays can do is to burn when intense 
enough, as fire burns. But the actinic 
rays, which do not burn, have other proper- 
ties that may render them highly beneficial 
or harmful to animal life. Thus it is the 
actinic rays that produce ordinary sun- 
burn — really not burn at all, but an irrita- 
tion of the skin, which may, as explorers 
know, be quite as painful on a glacier, with 
the thermometer below zero, as in the tropics. 
Finsen was at this point in his researches 



when, one day, at the medical library in 
Copenhagen, he came upon a pamphlet pub- 
lished in 1832 by Dr. Pictou, of New Orleans. 
In the pamphlet there was incidental mention 
of the fact that, during a certain small-pox 
epidemic, some soldiers confined in dark 
dungeons had suffered the disease, and re- 
covered without suppuration or scarring. No 
attempt was made at explanation. But the 
mere fact was sufficient for Finsen, who, in a 
flash of insight, seized upon a trutji that had 
lain here for years, understood by no one. 
The soldiers had recovered without scarring 
simply because, being in the dark cells, they 
w^ere protected against the irritating actinic 
rays, the same blue rays that disturb the 
earthworms so. No one knew better than 
Finsen how much harm these rays can do, 
even to a normal and healthy skin, by sun- 
burning. How much greater harm, he 
reasoned, must these rays work if allowed to 
fall upon an inflamed, sensitive cuticle like 
that of a small-pox patient ! It was, therefore, 
clear to him that such patients should be 
kept either in darkness, like Dr. Pictou's 
prisoners, or, better still for purposes of con- 
venience and comfort, in red light, which is 
physiologically the same as darkness. Would 
not patients thus protected from the chemical 
rays enjoy immunity from pock-marking ? he 
asked himself. 

Within a month after the question had 
suggested itself, Finsen offered to the world 
his red-light treatment, declaring confidently 
that small-pox patients would suffer no scar- 
ring of face or body if cared for in rooms 
from which all light but red had been ex- 
cluded. And the curious part of it is, that 
at this time Finsen had nwver seen a case of 
small-pox, and based his conclusions entirely 
on theoretical grounds. He was like the 
astronomer who first calculated with pencil 
and paper that there must be a new planet 
at a certain point in the heavens, and then 
set about finding it with his telescope. 

It happened that there was much small- 
pox that summer in Bergen, Norway ; and 
Dr. Findholm, chief of the military service 
there, suggested to Dr. Svendsen, his assistant, 
that he should make a trial of the red-light 
treatment. In August, 1893, the first test 
was made on eight small-pox patients, four 
of them children who had never been 
vaccinated and were bad cases. The result 
was a triumph for Finsen, and was summed 
up thus by Dr. Svendsen :— 

"The period of suppuration, the most 
dangerous and most painful stage of small- 
pox, did not appear ; there was no elevatiou 

of temperature and no edema. The patients 
entered the stage of convalescence im- 
mediately after the stage of vaccination, 
which seemed a little prolonged. The hideous 
scars were avoided." 

Within a few months the red hght was 
also tried in Gothenburg, Sweden, by Dv. 
Benckert, whose verdict was ; " In grave 
cases of small-pox it gave the most surprising 
results. I can say, as the result of my 
experience, that suppuration is usually 
abolished by this treatment. Scars are 
extremely rare, and if they do occur, they 
are insignificant. The duration of the 
disease is shorter." 

And presently control tests were made, 
showing that if small-pox patients w^ere ex- 
posed to daylight after beginning the red- 
light treatment, they invariably suffered 
suppuration and scarring. A very little 
daylight was found sufficient to do the harm, 
the inflamed skin being almost as sensitive to 
the actinic rays as a photographic plate. It 
was, therefore, judged necessary, and is 
to-day, to keep every ray of daylight out of 
a small-pox patient's room, and to cover 
every window and opening with red curtains 
or red glass, with the same care that a 
photographer exercises in guarding his dark- 
room. In ordinary cases a clear red light is 
sufficient to prevent scarring, and the patient 
can see to read. In very bad cases, however, 
there is need of a deep red light. 

Now that all this is understood and the 
value of red-light treatment recognised 
everywhere, it is interesting to look back to 
the methods of ten years ago (they are still 
pursued by many doctors) and see how the 
best of these succeeded in a measure simply 
because they accidentally offered some pro- 
tection against the chemical rays. Thus the 
various compresses employed, the smearing 
of the face with fatty substances, the painting 
it with tincture of iodine or nitrate of silver 
— all these, and others, did good in so far as 
they guarded the patient's face from day- 
light. And it is worthy of note that back 
in the time of Queen Elizabeth the value of 
red curtains, red coverlets, and red globes 
about the bed in small-pox cases was loudly 
proclaimed by certain doctors who, sad to 
relate, were regarded as charlatans by 
orthodox practitioners of that day. But 
it remained for Finsen to formulate these 
odds and ends of the true method into a 
system resting on a scientific basis. 

Here, then, was one thing accomplished 
by the ailing anatomy teacher. All the 
world might now have small-pox without 



fear of disfigurement, which was something, 
although certainly not a cure. 


With SO much done, Finsen went back to 
his general experiments, and afcer 1893 we 
find him, thanks to his newly won prestige. 

freed from the drudgery of teaching, and 
able to concentrate all his efforts, health 
permitting (which it usually did not), 
upon his chosen field of phototherapy, 
or the use of light in medical practice. 
Having pointed out a certain injury 
that the body may suffer from the 
chemical rays, he now hoped to 
discover in them some unsuspected 

It was well known at this time 
that ordinary sunlight will destroy 
bacteria if these are long enough 
exposed to its action. Finsen now 
proceeded to show that this bacteri- 
cidal action of hght is almost entirely 
limited to the blue, the violet, and 
the ultra-violet rays (the green, 
yellow, and red being practically use- 
less), and this action is greatly 
intensified by focusing the light 
through lenses. Thus Finsen found 
that while unfocused light from a 
July sun in Copenhagen would kill 
plate cultures of the bacillus pro- 
digiosiis in an hour and a half, the 
same light concentrated through 
lenses, with the useless rays filtered 
out, would kill similar cultures in 
two or three seconds; and the same 
was true of other bacteria — they 
were almost instantly destroyed if 
exposed to concentrated actinic rays. 
Now, evidently, you can cure any 
bacterial disease if you can destroy 
the bacteria that cause it, so the 
essential thing to know next was 
how far into the body these chemical 
rays could be made to penetrate for 
this business of bacteria-killing. If 
they could be e-ent through and 
through the body (as some credulous 
newspapers have imagined), then all 
diseases of bacterial origin, tuber- 
culosis and the rest, must certainly 
be cured ; but it was soon found that 
any such considerable penetration is 
impossible with the present resources 
of science. The depth of the radial 
action into the tissues is very shalloAV 
— a few millimeters at the most. It 
is true that the actinic rays will 
penetrate farther when concentrated 
\)j lenses, but not far enough to 
make them available against any but 
superficial diseases. 
Finsen's experiments furthermore demon- 
strated that a powerful electric light is more 
efficient as a bactericidal agent than ordinary 



sunlight, however concen traced, since the 
latter loses part of its ultra-violet rays in 
passing through tlie earth's atmosphere, 
while the former has these in abundance. 
And in the matter of penetration he 
discovered tliat the actinic rays will go much 
deeper into tissues from which the blood has 
been pressed so that they are left white. 
The red colour of the blood acts like red 
glass in opposing the passage of any light 
but red. Finsen showed this ingeniously by 
placing a piece of sensitised paper back of 
his wife's ear and then allowing the con- 
centrated rays from one of his lamps to fall 
upon the front of the ear. The experiment 
w^as tried first when the ear was fidl of 
blood, and in this case it was found, after 
five minutes' exposure to the light, that the 
paper was not blackened. Then the light 
was turned upon the ear squeezed free of 
blood, and within twenty seconds the paper 
ivas blackened. 

Gradually a girdle of limitations was 
established about the new field of investiga- 
tion. For instance, there is a variety of 
baldness due to bacteria which, it was 
reasonable to think, might be cured by the 
chemical rays. And there is a form of 
superficial cancer due to bacteria which also 
fitted the conditions. And there are various 
diseases (some due to bacteria and some not) 
which seemed to call the experimenter with 
his healing electric-lamp. What would the 
chemical rays do for measles, or acne, or 
lupus? These were questions that could 
only be answered after months of tests. 

Finsen began with lupus, a dreadful 
disfiguring disease, usually of the face, that 
comes when the bacteria of tuberculosis 
attack the surfaces of the body instead of 
the lungs or deeper parts. There was no 
cure for lupus, and thousands of sufferers 
over the world (there were some 1,500 in 
Denmark alone) were condemned without 
hope to endure its slow ravages. Surgeons 
might cut away the affected parts, but some 
of the bacteria were almost sure to remain, 
80 that the knife gave only temporary relief. 

Finsen's first patient was an engineer of 
Copenhagen, Niels Morgensen, who for eight 
years since the lupus declared itself had 
vainly tried whatever science could suggest 
for his relief. No less than twenty-five 
times, he told me, his face had been operated 
on, the right side being cut, scraped, burned 
with acids, seared with hot irons, and all to 
no avail. In the autumn of 1895 the photo- 
therapeutic treatment on Morgensen was 
begun. At first everything was very crude ; 

a hand lens was used to concentrate the rays 
from an ordinary arc lamp, the red and ultra- 
red being filtered out through blue water. 
For an hour or two hours, every day, this 
concentrated blue light was directed against 
the afflicted right cheek, Finsen himself 
holding the lens, aided by a medical student. 

The result came up to the fullest expecta- 
tions. After the first treatment there w^as 
no more spread of the disease, but a steady 
closing in of the lupus patches and a 
lessening of the angry redness as healthy 
tissue formed. Within six months Niels 
Morgensen was free from his disease, and 
Finsen had done what doctors and surgeons 
would have laughed at as a mad impossi- 
bility — he had cured a case of lupus with 
some blue water and a piece of glass ! 

And so the thing was settled, and again 
Finsen's reasoning was demonstrated sound. 
These strange chemical rays that must be 
shunned in small-pox were seen now to hold 
a cure for this other dread malady, lupus. 
The light which caused harmful irritation in 
the one case destroyed harmful bacteria in 
the other ; and, better still, destroyed them 
painlessly. All that Finsen asked of a 
patient w^as not to have small-pox and lupus 
at the same time ! 

It is good to know that Finsen's new^ 
discovery met with prompt recognition. 
Within a month of Morgensen's cure the 
Finsen Light Institution had been established 
in Copenhagen, starting modestly in the 
gardens of the Commune Hospital, and 
moving soon to important buildings of its 
own in the suburbs. In the first six months 
only ten or twelve cases were received, and a 
single nurse gave the treatment ; but the 
benefit to those treated was so great that 
soon the news spread over all Denmark and 
passed beyond, that at last a cure for lupus 
had been found, a simple cure by light. 
Straightway from many points came the 
afflicted ones — Danes and Swedes and Nor- 
wegians and Germans — to see what this 
young doctor of Copenhagen could do for 
them, this sick man Finsen, with his vital 
organs all gone wrong and his great belief 
in light. What Finsen did was to cure 
them ! 

And see now how swift the spread of a 
beneficent discovery. Every year, in April, 
the present Queen of England and her sister, 
the former Empress of Eussia, were accus- 
tomed to visit Copenhagen for the birthday 
of old King Christian, their father. And of 
course they were told of this fine thing that 
Finsen had done, and they went to the Light 



Institute and observed the treatment for 
themselves, with the result that in 1898 
the Empress of Eussia sent the Prince of 
Oldenburg to Copenhagen with three of 
the most eminent professors in St. Peters- 
burg to study Finsen's methods, with a view 
of introducing them into Russia. So favour- 
able was their report that presently St. 
Petersburg had its Finsen Institute also. 
Meantime Queen Alexandra had presented 
one of Finsen's lamps to the London Hos- 
pital, where in due course a light department 

lens of rock crystal for the one of ordinary 
glass used at first, since he found that rock 
crystal allows the ultra-violet rays to pass 
freely, while ordinary glass almost stops 
them. And he gradually increased the 
pow^er of his electric lamp from twenty-five 
amperes up to fifty, to seventy, to eighty 
amperes, as in the lamps used now. Of 
course, the more pow^erf ul the arc light is, the 
more abundant is the supply of actinic rays 
and the greater their penetration. And the 
only reason why Finsen has stopped at lamps 


(then princess OF wales). 

was established, and exists to-day, for the 
treatment of lupus. 

Needless to say, Finsen has made many 
advances in the use of the liofht. He soon 
discovered, for instance, that the ultra-violet 
or invisible rays at the blue end of the 
spectrum are much more efficacious in killing 
bacteria — say ten times more so — than are the 
visible violet rays, and this fact led him to 
abolish the blue-water filter which prevents 
the ultra-violet rays from passing, and to use 
instead clear, w^ater which sufficiently absorbs 
the red and ultra-red rays that would other- 
wise burn the skin. He also substituted a 

of eighty amperes (that is, about three times 
the intensity of ordinary street arc lamps) is 
because above that point it is impossible, as 
yet, to cool down the light so that a patient 
can bear it. 

Suppose we look in now at Finsen's Light 
Institute and observe something of its prac- 
tical working. One is struck first of all by 
the beauty of the place, set in the midst of 
lovely gardens, shaded by fine trees, and 
walled about with vines and flowers. No 
cheerless hospital this, but a handsome villa 
in the choicest part of Copenhagen. Here 
are the laboratories and Finsen's home, and, 



just adjoining, a long, white, two-storey 
building where patients are treated : all this 
a gift of the Danish Government. As you 
glance through the hedges, you see a glow of 
red light like a foundry, and figures moving 
behind wide-open doors. These are the 
lupus patients, and the glare is that of the 
red-shaded Finsen lamps, for each lamp has 
the intensity of thirty-five thousand candles, 
and there are seven in one large room. 

The seven lamps, with their glowing red 
curtains, are seven centres of cheerfulness, 
and under each one you are surprised to see 
laughing, chattering groups, eight people to 
a lamp, four patients and four nurses. The 
patients lie comfortably on high cots and 
receive the light from four down-slanting 
tubes like telescopes, in which are the costly 
rock-crystal lenses and the water for elimin- 
ating the heat rays. These tubes the nurses 
move into position so as to focus an intense 
concentrated beam, yet sufficiently cool, upon 
the surface under treatment, usually some 
part of the face, and they also press the 
surface with a water-filled glass which serves 
the double purpose of freeing the tissues 
from blood and still further cooling the rays. 
That is about all there is to the treatment, 
which goes on thus in seances of an hour 
and a quarter a day for each patient, and, 
being quite painless, leads naturally to 
pleasant sociability in the various groups. 

In moving about the room, one sees 
patients of all ages from four to seventy, 
and more women than men. They come 
from different countries and speak various 
languages. Several are from England, 
attracted by the small cost of treatment, only 
sixty kroner a month (about three pounds 
twelve shillings) for the very poor, or one 
hundred kroner for those in better circum- 
stances. Fancy being cured of lupus — actually 
cured — for four shillings a day ! Here is a 
German girl busy with her sewing while she 
waits her turn. She was meant to be pretty. 
Here is a man with his collar off, taking the 
treatment fast asleep, as often happens. And 
watch the nurses, very neat in their grey 
and white frocks, as they bend over their 
charges. Red spectacles guard their 
eyes against the dazzle, their arms are 
bared to the elbows, their hands are 
busy with the light, and on their faces is 
a glow which is partly an up-refiection of the 
rays, and partly an outward reflection of kind 
thoughts, for there is a peculiar dignity and 
sweetness in these Danish women. 

So the seance drowses along, with a low 
buzz of talk, and the regular clicking of the 

lamps as the clockwork feeds down the car- 
bons. Sundays and week-days alike through- 
out the year, the light cure is in operation, 
and has been now since 1896, in which time 
the actinic rays have shown abundantly what 
they can do in destroying the bacteria of 
lupus. Not in a few weeks, it is true, but 
surely, after such time as is required — some- 
times months, occasionally when the disease 
is very bad. And it should be borne in mind 
that most of the cases received up to the 
present have been bad ones, lupus of twenty, 
thirty, or even forty years' standing. Yet 
the actinic rays have invariably done their 
work, and one may say that in some 600 
cases on the records at Copenhagen, there 
have been no failures due to any fault in the 
light treatment, only a few when the patients 
began it too far gone for anything to help 
them. In the future, of course, such bad 
cases will become more and more rare, since 
sufferers will take the disease in time, and 
the cure of lupus in its early stages is merely 
a matter of weeks or days. Finsen says in 
one of his papers: " I have observed cases of 
lupus, in which the lesion was the size of a 
pea, completely disappear after having been 
subjected for only fifteen or twenty minutes 
to the action of the ultra-violet rays." 

Already the Finsen lamps have been used 
with success for cancer in its small service 
form {Epithelioma cutaneum), the records of 
twenty-two such cases showing ten cures,^ 
four still under treatment, and eight where 
the treatment was discontinued. Also, obsti- 
nate cases of acne have been cured, as well 
as the kind of bacterial baldness {Alopecia 
areata) mentioned above. Excellent results 
have been obtained in erysipelas and minor 
eruptions, and there is opening a wide and 
promising field of investigation as to the 
benefits of electric-light baths and sun-baths 
in various nervous diseases and in insanity. 
At the Finsen Institute there is a large room 
where naked patients walk about for a pre- 
scribed length of time under a powerful 
electric light. And the roof is built flat, 
with rows of little dressing-houses, for sun- 
bath patients. Of precise results here, how- 
ever, it is still too soon to speak — Finsen's 
attitude towards possibilities of the future 
being always to say nothing until he is sure. 
But the work of phototherapy is marching 
on in many laboratories. Soon there will be 
light institutes like Finsen's in all large 
cities, and any day there may be given to 
the world some other discovery, perhaps a 
far greater one, in this wonderful new field 
of the uses of light in medicine. 




Some time after my visit to Copenliao;en, I 
had an opportnnitj to observe the Fiiiseii 
Hght treatment as it has been adopted in 
Paris and London. I went to several of the 
great hospitals in these cities, and again 
saw the Finsen lamps working their benign 
wonders. All were agreed that lupus could 
now be cured, absolutely cured ; agreed also 
as to the efficacy of red light against small- 
pox disfigurement. 

In Paris, the doctors, while giving Finsen 
the full credit as the pioneer discoverer, have 
a lamp of their own which they claim is in 
several points superior to his. This lamp, 
the invention of Professor Broca and Dr. 
Chatin, is unquestionably smaller and simpler 
and easier to operate than Finsen's, and pos- 
sesses this peculiarity, that one of its carbons 
has a core of cast-iron, the result being that 
the arc light thus produced throws out ultra- 
violet rays in far greater abundance (they 
claim three times greater) than the light 
from ordinary carbons. And in my visit to 
the Broca Hospital in Paris, Dr. Bisserie, 
^^e/* de lahoratoire in the department of elec- 
trotherapy, assured me that with this im- 
proved lamp they do as much for a lupus 
patient in twenty minutes (the length of 

their seances) as Finsen does in an hour 
and a quarter. Furthermore, they do away 
entirely with the use of water in cooling the 
rays (they use only thirty amperes instead of 
eighty), and also with the constant attend- 
ance of a nurse to press the tissues free from 
blood. Furthermore, they find that one 
application of the light in several days is 
sufficient for best results, instead of one 
application every day. All of which seems 
in the nature of real progress and promises 
fine things for the future ; but it should be 
said that this French lamp is scarcely a year 
old, so that its permanent value cannot yet 
be regarded as established. 

Meantime, Finsen himself, in spite of his 
longing for light, and trust in his virtues, is a 
stricken man. All that he has done for the 
health of others has profited little for his 
own health. When 1 saw him, he looked 
weak and ill, though buoyed up by the power 
of his enthusiasm, a sort of light from within. 
He is al)le to work only an hour or two in 
a day. He suffers constantly. He can eat 
scarcely anything, and, during his bad 
months, sits at table with a pair of scales 
beside his plate, and weighs every morsel. 
He has scorned to make money from his dis- 



coveries, giving them all f reelj to the world, 
and has patented no part of his apparatus. 
He lives content on a salary of £800 a 
year, paid by the Danish Government, and is 
worried only because the Light Institute, 
which gives its treatment to the poor for 
almost nothing, has a debt of £8,000 hang- 
insf over it. 


By Jacob A. Riis. 

I WAS lying ill of a fever in the Commune 
Hospital at Copenhagen in the summer 
of 1899, when I made the acquaintance 
of Br. Niels Finsen. We bad met before 
in the house of his father-in-law, the 
venerable bishop of my own town over by 
the North Sea, but it was during those 
homesick days that I really learned to know 
the man. When the fever had left me, I 
would sit in his little office down in the 
corner of the hospital grounds by the lake 
and watch the patients, who liad come in 
pain and gloom, go away, carrying in their 
faces the sunshine that had given them back 
their life. And I came to look with a kind 
of reverential awe upon- this patient, silent 
man whose every thought was for his suffer- 
ing fellows while he cahiily counted the hours 
to his own release from racking pain. I 
learned from his own lips the story of his 
great temptation : how when he found what 
he souglit — the power to combat the disease 
with the ravening name (lupus— sl wolf) 
—he lay awake one whole long night, de- 
bating with himself whether to turn it 
to account in private practice — Finsen is 
a poor man — or to give it and his life 
to the world. He chose poverty, and 
the world is the richer for his sacrifice. 
The story of Finsen's success is the old one 
of the man who knows. Cradled in the 
island of storms and wintry night, he loved 
the sun. His eye lighted up when he spoke 
of it : " Let it break through suddenly on a 
cloudy day,'' he said, " and see the change ! 
Insects that were drowsy wake up and take 
wing ; lizards and snakes come out to sun 
themselves ; the birds burst into song. We 
ourselves feel as if a burden were lifted. In 
our daily life we give to the sunhght the 
place that belongs to it, without question. 
The housewife 'suns' her bedclothes. We 
shun dark rooms, especially bedrooms." But 
he was not content to accept experience 
without question. He wanted to knoi(^. And 
with the spirit of the true investigator he 

went back to Nature and considered the ant 
and the lizard, and their ways. The rest 
is a record of patient work and thinking. 
The difference between his way and that 
otlier one which jumps at conclusions and 
postpones the day of knowledge, is amusingly 
brought out in his earliest pamphlet on 
" Light as a Stimulus," in which he speaks 
of General Pleasanton and the blue-light 
craze of the 'seventies. " The General," he 
says, "was absolutely on the right track; but, 
lacking the scientific basis, he fell into the 
error of believing his ' discovery ' to be a 
cure-all for the ills of the animal and 
vegetable kingdoms." So his blue light was 
laughed at as quackery. And now another 
generation hears from the Danish doctor 
why he was right in principle, though we 
heeded him not. 

The Danish Government has given to the 
Finsen Light Institute a home ; the people 
of Copenhagen give it support and unstinted 
affection. Dr. Finsen has given, is giving, it 
his life. No more can any man give. 


By Alfred Harmsworth, 

Donor of the First £10,000 Lamp to the 
London Hospital. 

Iisr July, 1899, Her Majesty (then Princess 
of Wales) paid a private visit to the London 
Hospital at Whitechapel, and made close 
inquiry into the treatment adopted at that 
institution for lupus. She then said that she 
knew a cure for it, which had been dis- 
covered by her compatriot. Dr. Finsen, 
of Copenhagen. The physicians were 
naturally enough somewhat sceptical, but 
the Queen insisted that she had personally 
and thoroughly investigated the cure at the 
inventor's clinic, and was convinced of its 
complete efficacy. She added that she would 
at once order a Finsen lamp for the use of 
the hospital. This generous offer was, of 
course, accepted, and as soon as the necessary 
installation could be arranged, the treatment 
was started on May 29, 1900. 

While the lamp so generously given by the 
Queen was being installed, Dr. Stephen Mac- 
kenzie, the senior physician of the London 
Hospital, proceeded to Denmark, accom- 
panied by Dr. Sequeira and two nurses, who 
were to be trained in the use of the lamp, 
the Queen herself doing everything to make 
them comfortable during their stay in her 
native country. What they saw at Dr. 



Finsen's institution fully convinced them of 
the importance and efficacy of the cure. 

No sooner had the first lamp, with its four 
lights, been put into operation at the London 
Hospital than an overwhelming rush of 
applicants for the cure followed ; and the 
most piteous letters came from all parts of 
the country, written by sufferers who begged 
that they might be received as patients. On 
April 20, 1901, a crowd of afflicted persons 
from the country took advantage of a cheap 

treatment became more generally known, the 
crowd of urgent applicants increased every 
day. The cost of working one of these 
four-light lamps amounted to about £600 
a year, and the expenses of the department 
added a very serious burden to the already 
overtaxed resources of the London Hospital. 
About this time the marvellous cures effected 
by the treatment came under my own notice, 
and, after carefully investigating and con- 
vincing myself that a permanent remedy had 


excursion to London, for a great football 
match, to come up to town and urge their 
needs in person. Sad to say, they had to 
I'eturn disappointed, for the number of 
patients already on the books was so great 
tnat they could not be reached for two years, 
during which time the loathsome disease 
^vould have continued its terrible ravages. 

A second lamp, capable of ti'eating four 
patients, was -installed soon after the" first ; 
but even this only touched the fringe of the 
need, for, as the wonderful results of the 

been discovered for one of life's most awful 
curses, Mrs. Harmsworth and I resolved to 
endow one of the lamps in perpetuity. 
Shortly afterwards, Mr. Percy Tarbutt very 
kindly raised the necessary sum to endow the 
second lamp, contributing generously towards 
the necessary amount, £10,000, himself. 

Several other lamps have been recently 
added to the department at the London 
Hospital, and an improved and smaller lamp 
has now been devised which does as much 
w^ork in fifteen minutes as the earlier type of 



lamp took an hour to do, though it is not 
yet quite certain whether the new lamps are 
equally effective in the long run. 

Since the installation, in the spring of 
1900, 398 patients have been treated at the 
London Hospital, of whom 149 have returned 
to their homes completely cured, and 282 
are at the present time under treatment. Of 
these, however, seventy-two are practically 
cured and do not attend regularly, but are 
still kept under medical observation. Fifteen 
nurses are wholly occupied in ^applying the 
treatment, and a large department is now 
being built for it at the hospital. How 
urgent the need continues to be will be 
apparent from the fact that no less than 227 
patients are at the present moment waiting 
to be treated. In the case of many of these, 
the disease will have made terrible progress 
before their turn arrives. 

The Queen's gracious act in establishing 
the cure has had widespread effect, and has 
aroused keen interest, not only in the medical 
profession, but among the general public. 
Lamps for the treatment have been installed 
at the Charing Cross and Westminster 
Hospitals, and at many provincial ones, such 
as those at Liverpool and Manchester, and 
at the Royal Hospital in Dublin ; and there 
is every reason to hope that lupus will be 
completely stamped out of our country in 
the course of a few years, if the public will 
come to the help of the hospitals by supplying 
the necessary funds for establishing the 

It is not too much to say that the Finsen 
light treatment for lupus ranks among the 
most striking and beneficent discoveries 

which modern medical science has made for 
the benefit of afflicted humanity. 

I cannot think it possible that men of 
means can know that so terrible a scourge 
can be absolutely and certainly cured, and 
yet allow the hospitals of a generous and 
enlightened land, from lack of funds, to 
continue without the necessary appliances for 
the Finsen treatment. 

I append a letter, one of many hundreds 
received, giving thanks for a splendid cure : 

*^ Twelve months since you were so kind 
as to take a child (DorotliyFardon, Coventry), 
for treatment for lupus. 

" I have now seen her in her house, and 
found her perfectly free from any appearance 
of the disease. The place has healed without 
any mark more than a slight thickening of 
the skin about the eighth of an inch long, 
which is the same pink colour as the cheek. 
No one would notice it without any previous 
knowledge of the spot. The child is in 
perfect health ; she has grown much and 
developed according to her age, six years. 

" I cannot thank you sufficiently for 
having received her at the time you did, as 
I understand arrangements had been made 
by the doctor to remove the whole cheek, when 
TWO DAYS BEFOEE / vms able to say you 
tvould receive and treat the case. I am sorry 
to add that I hear there is no lamp yet in 
the Coventry Hospital. 

"I hope you will receive the sincere thanks 
of Dorothy's parents, who are truly grateful, 
and mine also for saving one child from so 
terrible a future such a disfigurement would 


1-IERE in the roar of the street, 

In traffic's dull beat, 
Swift to defeat 
Dwelleth my mind, — 
Striving and driving with its grim kind. 

There in a far forest's lane, 

Green after rain, 

Careless of gain 

Dwelleth my heart, — 

Seeking the silence the trees impart. 


Among the shadows of the boughs he stands, 
And shakes the leaves at me with both his hands. 

And then upon the mossy roots we lie, 

And watch the leaves make pictures on the sky. 

And then we swing and float from bough to bough- 
And never fall? I can't remember now. 

The games I play with him are always best, 
And yet we cannot teach them to the rest. 

For when the others come to join our play, 
I look around — and he has slipped away ! 

They ask me if he speaks— I cannot tell, 
But no one else can play with me so well. 

a Qp^ Ci w « ^ 8^y g e 


By C. fell smith. 

DO the young of to-day* go to Mrs. 
Marcet for their fairy tales ? I 
fancy not. This may be due less 
to the changed tastes of children in general 
than to an alteration in their circum- 
stances, surroundings, and earliest impres- 
sions. The age that grows up with electric 


light and hydraulic lifts, to say nothing of 
automobile carriages and poles for Avire- 
less telegraphy as familiar features of the 
landscape, has surely dulled its taste for 
marvels. Yet there was a time, not so 
long ago, when the tale of "The Three 
Giants " represented to the youtliful idea 
all that w^as fascinating and best in story- 

It piqued curiosity with a mystery in every 
page, and at the same time offered a most 
subtle flattery, because even an intelligent 
child could penetrate the secret of its 
author's double-edged wit, A most ingenious 

compound of the romantic and the ultra- 
utilitarian, the story offered the piquant 
delights of a shipwreck, some castaways, and 
a desert island where no less than three 
ministering angels— Aqua-fluens, Ventosus, 
and Yaporifer- abode. Above all, the en- 
raptured child-reader was never suffered to 
suspect that he or 
she was being in- 
structed, it is 
strange how bit- 
terly the youthful 
mind resents the 
very thing that 
the g r w n -up 
assimilates and 
even revels in. For 
there is no longer 
any room to doubt 
that the most uni- 
versally read novels 
are those that set 
out to instruct and 
inform — whether it 
is about the mar- 
riage laws, prison 
reforms, hospital 
life, labour prob- 
lems. Catholic 
principles, or ag- 
nosticism — rather 
than those that 
merely amuse. 
The first of Mrs. Marcet's three giants 
was always the favourite. His gentle dis- 
position ; his preference for a prostrate 
attitude upon the grass, where the children 
could climb about his unwieldy form ; his 
obliging readiness to accomplish any task to 
which he was set, were all quite irresistible. 
Even when his impetuous winged brother, 
Yentosus, ruffled his serenity, and caused 
liim to foam with rage, all one's childish 
sympathies went out to Aqua-fluens rather 
than to the fickle creature who veered about 
first one way and then another, and whose 
sighs and moans were to be heard when he 





was far ont of sio^ht. The elusive Yaporifer, who could only be 
incluced to work for Jobson and the other desert islanders 
after he was caught and closely imprisoned, was obviously 
even less reliable. 

A(iua-fluens had more good points. When 
he was wanted to work, he only needed 

be saddled with a few planks, 
and guided with a 
long pole. He wore 
a robe of dazzling 
brightness, and 
cheerfully sat up 
all night to grind 
the corn or saw the 
timber. He was 
beneficent fairy and 
giant in one. Like 
Jobson's wife, how- 
ever, we cherished 
a Fecret fear that 
he would need a 
whole flitch of 
bacon and a plan- 
tation of cabbages 
at one meal ; so when, to add to all his other good qualities, it was discovered that he 
never slept or ate, and asked for no wages, his assured triumph was complete. With 
all the rooted conservatism of childliood, which returns to us with our old age, 
our faith was pinned to the giant wdio had been tried and trusted from the 
days of Noah dowmwards, and not to liis two very modern and unreliable 
brethren . 

Perhaps we English do our best to harness the giants and 
employ them as our vassals and servants. But we are not 
a pai'ticiilarly inventive people, and as the natural forces 
do not in our little island assume vast proportions, 
we do not achieve any very stai'tling results. 
A<|ua-fluens, as we know, is going to present 
\Y^ before long with a problem with which 
it will take all our wits to grapple. If 
our population goes on increasing 
at the rate it has done in the last 
quarter of a century, the burn- 
ing question will arise whether 
that gentleman will be good 
enough to supply us with 
water enough to drink and 
to wash in, let alone any 
surplus for motive power. 
When Liverpool and Man- 
chester have annexed all the 
Cumberland and Westmor- 
land lakes, when Birming- 
ham usurps a major portion 
of the Welsh lakes, and 
London requisitions all the 
remainder in addition to 
tlie Thames and the Lea, 
tliere will not be much 
m a r gin o v e r f o r 
turning mills, working 




mines, driving dynamos, or running dye- 

Across the Atlantic things are very 
different. On the great continent at the 
other side, the wasted power, the vohime, 
and the prodigahty of her rivers have 
supplied her ingenious population with a 
hundred notions of how to turn so much, 
abandoned force to the best commercial 
account. A mighty torrent is bursting its 
heedless way down some vast canon in the 
mountains. It will but devastate the valley 
when it gets there ; but let man, Ihe over- 

was made, and in a surprisingly short time 
darkness was banished. But flume-making 
is not without its special dangers, although 
in this instance the process was carried 
through without serious accident. I have, 
how^ever, known the bursting of a flume to 
play a most useful and important part in the 
plot of a much-read American novel. The 
heroine's life, if not actually in danger, is 
at least extremely uncomfortable, until the 
hero arrives, endued with superhuman strength 
and courage, and rescues her from the rising 
flood whicli had cut off her retreat. 


• i 


lord, once arrest its headlong course, trap 
it and confine it within sufficiently strong 
bonds, and all its hitherto untutored strength 
will be at his behest. 

A year or two ago such a task was accom- 
plished by an enterprising company in 
Bakersfield, California, a town which in a 
few years had trebled in size. The popula- 
tion needed light — electric light, of course. 
The Kern river, which dashed down the 
mountain-side some sixteen miles outside the 
town, needed only a little persuasion to 
perform with docility the business of 
illumiuating 70,000 inhabitants. A flume 

While the Bakersfield flume was making, 
a series of photographs was taken, which 
will show something of the magnitude of 
the work. In the first, the construction party 
is seen starting from the river-bed. The 
men are equipped with sextant, theodolite, 
and spirit-level, and carry the white flag 
with which they signal each other when 
about to commence blasting. The second 
picture shows them making a toilsome 
ascent, each carrying his 50 lb. of dyna- 
mite. The next shows the explosion. Then 
comes the flume itself, winding serpent-like 
along the mountain-side, following its out- 


J'heae flumes, which are fed by mountain torrents, serve to float logs and hewn timber from the mountain-tops down to the 

'dii^-mills. They are of rapid descent, and some are as much as thee or four miles in length. After the week's work in camp, 

^h himher-men construct a sort of skiff of rough slabs nailed together, and instead of a long and laborious descent, they will 

reach the settlement by water, travelling at the rate of a mile a minute. A gaff is used as a brake. 



line, bridtjing 
chasms, and over- 
leaping crevasses, a 
marvellous testi- 
mony to the 
indomitable pluck 
and perse\'eranco 
of its projectors. 
At the bottom of 
the valley the bed 
of the river lies 
dry, while the giant 
himself is cajoled 
and conducted high 
above, only to be 
let down from the 
mountain when he 
has gathered 
sufficient force to 
accomplish the task 
he has been set. 
AYhat that force is 
may be guessed 
from the volume of 
water escaping 
from one faulty spot 


in the side of the 


view of 
of the 

the interior 
size of this 

affords some 
huge wooden 




tuuuel, especially as a horse, which is being 
used to draw trolleys along a rude tramway 
constructed in the bottom, remains, and 
looks by comparison a pigmy. The district 
around Bakersfield being absolutely devoid 
of timber, the materials for the flume had to 
be " hauled " from the State of Oregon. No 
less than a million feet of timber were 
needed, for the flume measures a mile and a 
half in length. " Flume," by the way, is a 
good old Danish word, meaning originally 
a deep, rocky channel — natural, of course — 
through which a river forces its way. It 
has been adopted in America, especially in 
the mining districts, to signify the arti- 
ficially made watercourse. A flume-car is 
one of the wonders of the Far West ; it 
is a car run along on grooved wheels 
fitting into the upper edges of the sides 
of the flume, the propelling force being 
the water underneath. There must, of 

course, be a slight fall to ensure continual 

In the next picture we see the conduit 
leading from the flume down to the power- 
house in the city. The enormous cylinders 
are conveyed in sections to the spot, and 
are swung into position by machinery. 
Their diameter is something over six feet, as 
a tall man is able to stand upright inside. 

The last picture shows us our old friend, 
the giant Aqua-fluens, returning to his 
native freedom. His purpose is accom- 
phshed, and he escapes in a cloud of foam 
and spray to his wild, rocky lair. 

To have set in motion the force sufficient 
to generate light of many thousand candle- 
power has been mere child's play to him ; and 
undiminished either in speed or volume, he 
goes on his way, gathering many streams as 
he goes, until he is lost in the boundless 
waters of the Pacific. 




SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.— The story opened in the schoolhouse of Lowran. The Ploughing 
Match Day had been a holiday since the beginning of time ; but Donald Gracie, the schoolmaster, had on this 
occasion denied the request of his scholars. A riot provoked the Dominie into striking the biggest youth m the 
school Muckle Sandy, who retorted by l^ocking the schoolmaster down. Dora Gracie, the schoolmaster s daughter, 
with the aid of "Strong Mac," one of the bigger boys, proceeded to teach the school. The Dommie himself 
comes of distinguished stock, but has fallen on evil days through his fatal craving for drmk Strong Mac wins 
the "Single-handed" cup in the ploughing match. Charlotte Webster, m love with Strong Mac is alarmed lest 
in her pique at his preference for Adora Gracie she has betrayed him as a poacher into the hands of the Laird s 
Lmmekeei4rs. The real fact, however, was that an incriminating pheasant in Mac's bag had been taken from his 
shoulders by a boyish devotee of Mac's, known as Daid the D^il, who was wounded by a shot from the keeper s 
mn. Strong Mac himself being released as blameless. The injury to the boy fired Sharon MeCulloch, the father 
of Mac a dour enemy of the great landlord from reasons of ancient wrong, to establish afresh a right ot way 
"to kirk and market" through recently locked gates on the Laird's estate. Further developments showed the 
repulse of the Laird's attentions by Adora, and the revealing to the former that Strong Mac is probably his more 
favoured rival. Jock Fairies and Sandv Ewan are also suitors to Adora, and Sandy Ewan plots with one Crob 
McRobb to have Mac accused of sheep-stealing; and as Mac and Adora loiter homewards from a party, Mac is 
arrested. While Mac is awaiting trial, Sandy Ewan renews his suit to Adora ; and when again rejected, yows to be 
reveno-ed On the day of the annual Presbyterial Examination, he plies the weak Dommie with drmk, so that the 
Members of the Presbvtery are kept waiting, and eventually defied by the drunken old man, who is thereupon 
dismissed from his post and left homeless and disgraced. 



lyrOW the course of St. Cuthbertstown 
1\ justice was this. The Sheriff— good 
easy man — had committed Roy 
McCulloch to the gaol of the county town, 
and to the common eye that seemed the end 
of the matter. There Strong Mac must lie 
till, upon the day of solemn assize, he should 
be transferred to Drumfern, to stand before 
a jury of his peers and meet the frown of the 
terrible Red Judge from Edinburgh. 

But Strong Mac's case was a more than 
usually serious one. All the papers must go 
to Edinburgh for the consideration of the 
Crown Council there. Neither the Fiscal 
nor yet the Sheriff was capable of deciding 
to proceed with the charge against Strong 
Mac. First the Lord Advocate's Depute, 
and then, as a court of final appeal, the great 
man himself, must state w^hether, on the 
evidence before them, Roy should be sent to 
the assizes on the capital charge. 

The Advocate Depute, to whom the doc- 
quet was transferred, found nothing directly 
against Strong Mac, except the fact, in itself 
sufficiently damnatory, that the sheep-skins 
had been discovered in his father's barn. 
But then, though that was presumption, no 
evidence existed as to who had placed them 
there. Roy had made no apparent profit out 

* Copyright, 1903, by S. R. Crockett, in the United 
States of America. 

of the killings— could have made none, ex- 
cept possibly in the consumption of the 
flesh, in which case his guilt must have been 
shared with his father. Nor had the 
mutton been dried or salted. No inordinate 
number of mutton hams were found swing- 
ing to the balks of the House of Muir. 
The McCuUochs were in no want of fresh 
meat, as could easily be shown. There was 
abundance of smoked venison in their chim- 
ney, and a few casks of brandy, probably 
undutied, lay in their cellar. A sufficient 
sum stood to Sharon McCulloch's credit in 
the Bank of Scotland at Drumfern. 

Evidence of motive, therefore, was want- 
ing ; evidence of fact, weak. No, said the 
Lord Advocate, there was not enough of 
general suspicion or circumstantial evidence 
to send the young man before the assizes. 
It was no use remitting him back to St. 
Cuthbertstow^n. The Substitute was one fool 
—the Sheriff Principal another ! Send them 
word to let the lad go. 

Thus rapidly and picturesquely the Lord 
Advocate did justice when, at his beautiful 
hillside residence, his Depute laid the case 
before him. 

Which word traveUing down to Cuthberts- 
town, Strong Mac, with a sudden dazing of 
his faculties, found himself free. His cell in 
the old gaol had been both dusky and dirty, 
and it seemed as if he had been forgotten — 
as if he must be there for ever. 

Roy stepped out into the clear light of 
early afternoon. The young summer was 




already sprinkling the twigs of the aslies with 
dainty green butterflies. Rosettes were be- 
ginning to dangle from the larches along the 
plantation edges. Outside the gaol door 
Strong Mac stood blinking hke an owl turned 
out into the daylight. He did not know any- 
one in St. Cuthbertstown, and had no desire 
to stay there. So, after a few minutes of 
hesitation, he struck through the narrow 
by-streets, not because of the quiet (for all 
streets are quiet in St. Cuthbertstown), but 
from an instinct of shame. He seemed un- 
clean to himself. There was a vague offence 
as of gaol-fever, or worse, about his clothing. 
He took his way up the waterside till, arrived 
at a sheltered pool, he stripped and plunged 
into the cool brown water. When, after 
submitting it to careful and prolonged con- 
sideration, he resumed his apparel, his 
self-respect was thereby somewhat recovered. 
At least he knew that he was clean. 

Strong Mac looked down at his clothes. 
They were worn, shabby, tainted with the 
disgrace of the place where he had lain. No, 
he was not fit to appear before her. He 
knew that. Nevertheless, since she had seen 
his shame — that night when they took him, 
she also should be the first in Lowran to hear 
of his rehabilitation. He would go to the 

It was wonderful how the thought altered 
him. Disgrace seemed to fall away from him 
instantly. His heart exulted that he would 
see her — her^ of whom he had had such long 
thoughts in the prison. He was no more 
the boy he had been, so he told himself. 
The new Strong Mac laughed when he re- 
membered that he had once tossed the bar 
and putted the stone, rejoicing in his own 
prowess. All that seemed a thing so in- 
conceivably httle and useless to him now. 
But a gate had fallen from its hinges. Strong 
Mac lifted it with one hand and replaced it. 
Then he laid his fingers lightly upon the 
topm6it bar and sprang backwards and for- 
wards over it with the ease of a bird. He 
caught the branch of a tree with liis left 
hand as high as he could reach, and drew 
himself up till his chin was over the rough 
bark. This he did several times, raising and 
lowering himself ; then he dropped hghtly 
back upon the ground. No ; so far as bodily 
strength went, he was still able for anything 
that might come to him. 

It was already growing dark as he ap- 
proached Lowran. The very air smelt 
different to his nostrils as he came over 
Barstobrick Moor. The famous heather of 
his native parish was not yet in bloom ; but 

the wind across the open sweep of brown 
moorland, splotched with black, where the 
spring moor burnings had been allowed to 
wander, brought the light into his eyes, the 
colour into his blanched cheeks. 

Yonder, in the hollow, nestled behind its 
dark green plantations, lay Lowran. Its 
" lums " had almost ceased smoking when 
Eoy came in sight of it. Ebie Oargen had 
put out his sraiddy fire, and was sitting in 
the kitchen over his supper, when the young 
man paused in the green brow of the knoll 
above. It was his instinct to go down and 
present himself to Ebie, demanding news of 
him, as at least a man who spoke no lie. 
But another thought came to dominate him 
— or, rather, the return of his first thought. 
First of all, before anyone else saw him, he 
would go to Adora. 

Woodman and hill man as he; was, accus- 
tomed to the chase of wild things. Strong 
Mac carried out his intent as silently as the 
shadow of a cloud passes over a hill. There, 
dark among its tall black pines, was the 
schoolhouse. His heart beat as it had never 
don 3 during his oft-repeated examinations 
before the Sheriff. 

He stood for a moment by the wall of the 
little private garden, separated from it only 
by the dyke over wliich he had so often so 
cunningly conveyed cut firewood and back- 
loads of peat. Now both piles seemed par- 
ticularly low. Roy smiled to himself as he 
thought that he would not be long in altering 

He laid his plaid on the dyke and leaped 
over. Everything was quiet. As usual, they 
would be at the other side of the house, that 
which fronted towards the high road to 

He turned the corner smiling, expecting 
to see the light burning in the window of 
the little parlour, and the shadows of the 
potted plants making a black pattern on the 
blind. It was dark. He looked up to Adora's 
bedroom. Dark also. He went quickly to 
the door and knocked. All was silent. He 
could hear a noise within — something like 
the scutting of a rat among papers. 

He tried the latch. It lifted, but the door 
did not yield. It was locked. 

Strong Mac stood back. For a long 
moment he could not think what had hap- 
pened. Was Adora lost to him ? Married ? 
He would have heard of it. Was her father 
dead ? Someone would surely have sent him 
word. He went to the window. The white 
Ayrshire rose had been pulled down by rude 
hands and trailed alonji: the ijrrouiid. Torn 



papei*, empty boxes, and bare walls WQre all 
that tlie deepening twilight revealed to him. 

Roj McOuUoch stood" a long while under 
the sough of the trees. He shivered a little 
after the closeness of the cell, for the wind 
struck chill out of the north, sharp as the 
front of the Scottish spring and mournful 
as its autumn. 

Then there came to him resolv^e, quick and 

It was Sidney Latimer who had ddne this I 
Either his pleading had been successful, and 
Adora had gone away with him ; or un- 
successful, and this was his revenge. It is 
curious that, in spite of the quarrel of the 
smithj, Roy never once thought of Sandy 
Bwan. The idea that such a man could be 
anything to Adora Gracie found no lodgment 
in his heart. But Sidney Latimer was 
another matter. There was frank repub- 
licanism in this young hill-poacher's heart. 
All men were not born equal, but all good 
men became so. Latimer was the son of 
one landowner, he of another. That the 
Laird of Lowran could count a hundred 
acres for each of his father's was nothing to 
Roy McCuUoch. 

He would go to the Great House of Lowran 
— now, as he was. He would speak with 
Sidney Latimer. As he turned down the 
little path along which he had so often walked 
with beating heart, Adora by his side, he saw 
a figure disengage itself from the gate. 
Something familiar in the attitude took 
Strong Mac's eye. He sprang over the 
dyke and laid a sufficiently retaining hand 
on the man's shoulder. In another moment 
Roy found himself face to face with Sidney 
Latimer. The meeting was unexpected on 
both sides, and Roy's hand rested a moment 
on the rough tweed collar of the Laird's 
coat. Then Sidney Latimer, with a fierce 
gesture and a backward spring, shook himself 

" What are you doing here ?" he demanded. 
" I thought you had been — elsewhere ! " 

'* I was coming to seek you, Laird Lowran," 
said Strong Mac slowly. His mind was 
altogether on the thing that held his heart — 
the fear that Adora was lost to him. He 
had no care for politenesses. 

" Indeed ! " said Sidtiey Latimer some- 
what frigidly. " In what (^an I assist you ? " 

'' I have an interest "— Strong Mac spoke 
steadily and with rigid plainness —*' an 
interest in Mr. Gracie —and his daughter. I 
was about to seek you, in order to ask of you 
what had become of them." 

" And by what right did you suppose that 

I had anything to do with their presence 
or absence ? " demanded Sidney Latimer 
fiercely, foi* the man was before him of 
whom he had been jealous. Nay, even now 
his heart retained something of its former 
feeling. It w^as this man who had brought 
about his quarrel with Adora. 

But Strong Mac's simple straight- 
forwardness vanquished liim. 

*^ I have, indeed, no right to suppose any- 
thing — nor do I," he said ; " but I have 
been . . . where I have heard nothing con- 
cerning those dear to me. And I thought — 
that if I could find you, I should hear the 
truth. It seemed strange to me — to come 
home and find - this ! " 

" Come with me," said the Laird of 
Lowran, melting suddenly. " To you it is no 
stranger than it is to me." 

And passing the porter-lodge and w^alking 
together through the dark arches of the 
trees, Roy listened to the story of that which 
had befallen Adora. Poacher and landownei* 
took counsel together. 

" And the man who did it ? " he demanded 
fiercely, the nails of his fingers crisping into 
his palms. 

Sidney I^atimer laid a restraining hand 
upon the young man's arm. 

" Wait ! " he said. " The thing will come 
right. I felt as you did- at first. But to 
do as you propose in your heart will not 
advantage her ! " 

Tacitly the two men avoided mentioning 
the girl's name. But Strong Mac would not 
be satisfied. 

"No," he said with a smothered force- 
fulness, " I will not be content. Tell me— 
was it Sandy Ewan ? " 

The Laird was silent. 

" Then if you will not answer, I take it 
that Sandy Ewan made tlie old man drunk 
and pushed him into the school, in oi'der to 
disgrace liis daughter before all the people ? " 

"I have only heard such thhigs said," 
repeated Sidney Latimer, with sorrowful 
acquiescence. " I do not know." 

" Ah ! " said Roy McCulloch, deep in 
thought. "Then will I go and speak with 
Sandy Ewan." 

Ik^fore he left tlie gaol he had satisfied 
himself as to who had laid the information 
in his own case. He knew, or thought he 
knew, l:>y whose orders the sheep-skins had 
been placed in the barn of House of Muii'. 
Tliere was another question which he had to 
ask of the young Laird, yet more important. 

"Where have they gone ? " he deminidod 
of his companion abruptly. 

" Kichard Dickie found the dead bod}^ of his master.' 



It was with equal brusqiieiiess that SiJiiey 
Latimer answered : " If I knew that, I would 
not be here ! Have jou anything moie to 
ask me ? If not, I bid you good-night." 

Thus with Sidney Latimer's curt salutation 
ended the evening of Tuesday, the thirtieth 
day of April. 

* * * >^ * 

About eleven minutes past six on the 
morning of Wednesday, the first day of 
May, or rather less than nine tours after 
Strong Mac had parted with Sidney Latimer 
under the trees of the avenue which led to 
Lowran House, one Richard Dickie, known 
as Dickie Dick, ploughman on the estate of 
Boreland, going out to his labour, ditching 
shovel and pick over his shoulder, came upon 
sundry curious spots upon fche road, irregular 
in shape. If it had been autumn, he would 
have thought little about the matter. They 
looked exactly like trampled blackberries, the 
purple colour fading into black. 

As it was, the intellect of Dickie Dick, 
never acute at any time, did not attach any 
particular importance to the marks. Some- 
one had gone that way early, carrying a pot 
of paint. How carelessly he had handled it ! 
Dickie thought it was a strange colour to 
paint carts or 'barn-doors. But Dickie Dick's 
day's work was on his mind, and he would 
have left the matter of the spots slip from 
his mind but for one circumstance. 

A little further along the road, lying on 
his back, with his hands gripped full of grass 
and leaves, the signs of a fierce struggle all 
about, Richard Dickie found the dead body 
of his master, Alexander Ewan, with six 
inches of a steel knife sticking between his 

As the lightning flashes from the east to 
the west, the news ran across the parish that, 
between ten o'clock on Tuesday night and 
six of Wednesday morning, Sandy Ewan had 
been murdered within a hundred yards of 
his own new house of Boreland. 



What follows is Dickie Dick's account of 
the matter— not that which he gave to the 
Fiscal, but that which he repeated times 
without number to a very large proportion 
of the inhabitants of Lowran and the neigh- 
bourhood, exactly in the same words. 

" Ye see, this is what I ken aboot it—and 
Lord be thankit that I ken nae mair ! For 
the pesterfication I hae gotten frae thae 

lawvyer bodies is juist past tellin', and wad 
hae driven mony a wiser man oot o' 
his wits ! " 

One of the auditors having made an 
obvious suggestion why this had not taken 
place, Dickie Dick threatened strong measures. 

" Gin ye gie me ony o' your impidence, 
Ged Blyth, ye can e'en tell the story yourseP. 
Ye may think yoursel' a clever lad, you and 
them that ken nae better than to laugh at ye. 
But nane o' ye fand him but me, and nane 
o' ye can tell the story but me -that is, no 
as it ought to be telled." 

^ * ♦ >1; :lf. 

*' It was this way," he continued after a 
pause for apology on one side and pacifi- 
cation on the other. " To begin at the 
beginnin'— and that was the nicht before, 
the maister had been unco dour and girnin' 
a' day, till maybes a wee while after nine 
o'clock, when I was helpin' Davie Kirklands, 
the unmarriet plooman, to supper the 
horse, there cam' a cry to us baith yin to 
gang into the hoose to Maister Ewan that 
meenit ! 

" ' It'll be to tak' the Bulk ! ' (to be 
present at family worship), says Davie Kirk- 
lands, lauchin' like. 

" ' Aye, a gye queer Bulk it'll be, then ! ' 
says I. * Muckle Sandy doesna trouble the 
Throne o' Grace verra often ! ' 

" ' The mair's the peety,' says Davie, wha 
is a wee bit o' a professor — that is, atween 
his ploys wi' this lass and that. ' The mair's 
the peety,' says he ; ' for it brings a blessing 
on a hoose to hae a bit prayer pitten up at 
e'en and morn. Forbye, it's a rest frae 
wark ! ' 

" And when we gaed up to the Big Hoose, 
faith ! there were the tumblers laid out, and 
the packs o' cairds, and the toddy ladles, and 
certes ! Davie Kirklands forgat a' aboot the 
takkin' o' the Bulk, and smacks his lips like 
ony ither man ! For he thocht that no yin 
o' us wad gang sober to bed. And that's a 
treat that doesna come often in the way o' 
puir ploomen and ditcher folk like me an' 

" Ow, aye, the maister may hae had his 
fauts— some o' them leeve after him, and 
some are even auld eneuch to gang to the 
schule — but at hame he was aye couthy and 
bien wi' the bit dram. It gied a man a fine 
regairdless cock to his Sunday bonnet to 
spend a winter aboot the Boreland. Waes 
me— it's a' gane ! It's a' by and dune wi' ! 

"Gang on wi' the story? Weel, what 
else am I doin' .? Think ye a man's tongue 
gangs aye to yae lilt the day by the length, 



like a mill-happer ? And when we were 
standin' i' the parlour wi' our hats in oor 
hand, ^ye sheepish, Sandy orders us to 
throw them in the corner and sit oor ways 
doon. And then he opens up his wull wi' 
us. . 

" It seems there was a man comin' to see 
him that Sandy Ewan was some doobtfu' o'. 
There was nocht by ordinar or curious in 
that ! He had a' sorts and kinds o' ill- 
dealin's, the maister. Up to the elbows 
half his time in jukery-packery wark wi' 
weemen an' horses and gemlin' ! (gambling) 
That was the airt o' Sandy Ewan ever since 
his faither did him the warst service he 
could — by giein' up the ghost* and leaving 
him heir to a' that he possessed. 

" Wha was the man that was comin' to the 
Boreland ? Aye, ye may weel ask ! Boot- 
less, HIM, wha's handivvark lies up in the 
chaumer yonder. We were no to set een 
on the veesitor, though, bat to bide in a 
bedroom brave and handy, if sae be we were 
cried on. But Sandy Ewan mun hae been 
feared by ordinar when he sent for twa men 
frae the stable to help him to pay a man 
siller. But Davie Kirklands threepit wi' 
me : * It will be somebody wha's weemen-folk 
he has been meddling wi'. He will be payin' 
the cradle stent to keep oot o' the clutches o' 
the law. He's an awsome man this maister 
o' oors ! The deil will hae a bonny bargain 
o' him when he gets him ! ' 

" This Davie said lichtsomely, as ony o' 
you micht say it, never thinkin' that the 
black deil himsel' was oot there on the 
Glebe road — iva'^tin' — at that verra meenit. 
Had he kenned, Davie michtna hae crawed 
sae croose. The deil has nippit up better 
Christians than him mony a time, and aff 
wi' them in his plaid- neuk to Muckle Hell. 
Weel, afc ony rate, the maister gied us a 
candle to see by, and the feck o' three or 
fower drams apiece. Then he pitches a pack 
o' auld worn cairds at us and tells us to be 
ready when he cried on us — the whilk he 
was only to do 'gin he had the need. As w^e 
w^ere shuttin' the door he promised to thraw 
oor necks if we stirred or as muckle as 
looked through the keyhole. We w^ere to 
bide there, that was a'. He expectit a man 
thab nicht, a man that micht be friendly and 
might no. That was as muckle as was guid 
for the like o' us to ken. And then he 
dooble-cursed us richt brisk and sharp— 
but that we were weel used to and minded 
nocht once ! 

" Gruess ye hoo we swat there in the inner 
chaumer, wi' no a soond in the great muckle 

hoose forbye the sdaff o' the cairds and 
while the settin' doon o' a glass or the 
clinkin' it made on the neck o' a bottle when 
oor hands shook. But for a' oor game, ye 
may believe that oor lugs were bane-stiff wi' 
hearkenin' what was gaun on in the room 
Sandy Ewan caaed the 'leebrary.' It had 
a lang new-fangled wundow at yae end that 
opened out like a door — a daft-like con- 
trivance that onybody might have kenned 
was for nicht-hawk tricks and wad lead to 
nae gnid. 

" After a while we heard twa men speakin' 
gye an' lood— Sandy's voice the loodest. The 
man maun hae comed through the lang 
window, for deil a bit did he either come 
or gang by the door into the passage. I'll 
swear that Davie's e'e never left the keyhole 
frae first to last. 

" But we could hear them speakin' — an' it 
was a voice I should hae kenned too, though 
I couldna juist pit a name to the man that 
aught it ! They werena 'greein' ower weel 
either, sae Davie an' me keepit a firm hand 
o' oor dickies, and, lads, for mysel' I wished 
that there had been a lang French window in 
the chaumer that we were in. Davie was mair 
prepared — wi' his ain tale o't — to meet his 
Mak^r, sae I wad e'en hae been for letting 
him gang ben and help the maister by himsel' ! 

" But by guid luck we werena askit, either 
of us. There cam' nae cry oot o' the 
leebrary. And by and by the maister comes 
ben, and orders us baitli to oor beds, threepin' 
that we will be cheatin' him oot o' the wark 
he was payin' us for, by lyin' snorin' i' the 

" ' And see that ye sneck the stable door,' 
he says as we gaed oot ; ' for I'm gaun to gie 
a bit look roond the hoose mysel', and if I 
find onything oot o' its place, I'll break your 
lazy backs i' the mornin', as sure as my name's 
Sandy Ewan ! ' 

" And that w^as the last word I heard o' 
him or saw — till stepping cannily alang the 
Glebe road, I fand him lyin', half i' the 
ditch an' half oot, his great braid face 
turned to the heevens, and a knife stickin' to 
the haft in his bull neck ! " 

* i'fi iY ^ -^ 

Such was Dickie Dick's tale, as it became 
stereotyped for general use. And even the 
trained acumen of the Fiscal, who had at last 
a job to his mind, could make little more of 
it than this. 

It was evident that the murdered man 
expected a visitor whom he had reason to 
distrust. As a precaution he had brought 
two of his able-bodied servants to remain 



within call ; but he did not wish them to see 
the visitor, except in case of an attack. Tlie 
man came. The meeting passed ofP without 
overt hostilities. Indeed, the suspicions of 
the" young farmer had by some means been 
allayed ; for he proposed to go out and lock 
up the premises, without asking the presence 
or assistance of the two serving-men. 

Now, the fact of Eoy McCulloch's release 
on the afternoon of the same day did not 
escape the attention of the Fisoftl. But the 
young man had been seen bathing in a pool 
of the river, and afterwards crossing the hills 
in the direction of his father's farm. It 
could not be supposed that he had had time 
to go so far out of his way as to the farm of 
Boreland by ten o'clock the same night. No 
one had recognised him in the neighbourhood 
of Lowran, much less in the vicinity of the 
spot where the murder had been committed. 
So the Sheriff and Fiscal, still smarting from 
the " back-set " administered to them from 
official headquarters, were rather inclined, 
while keeping their minds open, to let the 
young man alone. Besides, in this case as 
in the other, an apparent motive was lacking ; 
for Sandy Ewan had not appeared in the 
informations which had been lodged against 
Roy McOulloch. It was recalled that he had 
given evidence with apparent reluctance, and, 
as far as possible, in favour of the accused. 
Furthermore, he had constantly come and 
gone to see McCulloch while a prisoner in 
the gaol of St. Cuthbertstown. 

Nor in the countryside, generally so much 
better informed than officialdom upon such 
matters, was there any more suspicion. Eoy 
McCulloch had come home. The affair of 
the sheep-stealing had ended exactly as 
everyone knew it would Even the spite of 
the lairds could not prove guilt where there 
was none. Whatever the McCuUochs were 
— and the parish knew very well all that 
could be said against them throughout their 
generations — they were no sheep-stealers. 
Smugglers, deer-poachers, private distillers, 
ready for a rough give-and-take with the 
gangers or preventive men- yes, any or all 
of these. But slay(irs of any honest man's 
sheep — no ! Such a charge must surely break 
down. All Lowran knew^ it would. So Roy 
McCulloch went about undisturbed. He 
was seen on the hill with his gun, as usual. 
He w-as at the market buying and seUing as 
if nothing had happened, a market where 
nobody did anything but talk about the 
murder of Sandy Ewan, and the murderer 
still at large and likely to be. 

It was to be noticed that on this occasion 

the farmers did not wait till dusk before 
ordering their horsesat the "Commercial "and 
the " Cross Keys." Also, on an average, they 
drank more by a couple of gills. They were 
earlier in reaching home. If anyone asked 
about fhe matter, he was told very shortly 
that " their wives were feared to bide their 
lane ! " For the thought of a secret murderer, 
lurking red-hand behind a dyke or ready to 
spring out of a thicket upon the passer-by, 
has a strange effect upon all the people of a 
district where such a crime has been com- 

It was a fine time for love-making. The 
Lowran lasses would not go to the well with- 
out escort, even in broad 'daylight. The lads 
had to accompany them in tlie summer 
twilight to the ewe-milking at the buchts — 
even across the yard as far as the byre. Old 
pistols were furbished up that had not been 
tired since Drumclog. Kate Brydson, putting 
her fingers out to fasten- a window-shutter, 
felt her hand shaken by a mischievous 
brother, and forthwith sank down on the 
floor in a faint. Brydson senior, tailor in 
Lowran, was still correcting his son w^hen 
Kate came to herself, and Brydson junior's 
objections to castigation, as stated by him in 
a loud voice, caused his sister to shriek out : 
" The murderer ! The murderer ! " Where- 
upon her mother, a broad-beamed lady of 
mature nerves, fainted dead away also ! 

Nobody was sorry for Sandy Ewan, except 
a woman or two whom he had ill-treated 
and a dog that he had frequently beaten 
almost to death. Nevertheless, after the 
medical examination, his funeral was cele- 
brated wath great pomp, people coming from 
great distances merely to see the place where 
the tragedy had taken place. 

Crowds of them stood all day long, gaping 
stupidly at the trampled earth of the Glebe 
road as if they expected the blood of the 
slain to cry out from the ground, fulfilling 
to the very letter the word of Scripture. 

But there was one man who knew more 
than the others and whose heart was ex- 
ceedingly troubled within him. That man 
was Sidney Latimer. When he returned 
from the funeral of the murdered man, where 
he had seen Roy McCulloch walking calm 
and collected by his father's side, and standing 
hat in hand by the open grave, he went 
directly into his study and threw himself 
down on a sofa to think. He had need. 
For he alone of all the world knew that 
Strong Mac had not returned to House of Muir 
by way of the St. Cuthbertstown road and 
the Bennanbrack hills. He alone had heard 

' Ye can e'en tell the story yoursel'. 



the words that had been spoken in the Great 
House avenue nnder the moaning sough of 
the beeches. But, having heard, he could 
not forget the grim bitterness of anger ex- 
pressed in the simple plirase : " Then trill I 
go and speak with Sandy Eivan ! " 

What if Roj McCulioch were the visitor 
for whom Sandy Ewan had made his pre- 
parations, whose voice was heard in angrj 
converse in the library of the gentleman- 
farmer, whose entrance and exit had alike 
been unseen ? It seemed probable enough 
to Sidney Latimer that Ewan* had received 
notice of his enemy's approaching release 
from prison. It was Ewan's sheep the 
prisoner had been suspected of stealing. It 
was natural that he should suspect Ewan of 
laying the information against him. Even 
apart from Adora Gracie, the ill-feeling 
between them was obvious. Moreover, Eoy 
McCuUoch had been in Lowran late on the 
evening of the murder, instead of at home 
with his father at the House of Muir, as 
everyone else beUeved. His last spoken 
words had been a threat against the dead 
man, and he had gone off in the direction of 
the spot where the body was found. 

Now, Sidney Latimer was a gentleman. 
Before serving as a soldier, he had studied 
law and had been admitted to the Scottish 
Bar. He was also a justice of the peace. 
But he could not be a tale-bearer. He had, 
it is true, little doubt of Roy McCulloch's 
guilt. In fact, he could easily reconstitute 
the scene at the Boreland to himself. There 
had been no premeditation. Of that he felt 
certain. But there had been reproach and 
counter-reproach, till, most likely, Sandy 
Ewan's dour temper had given way suddenly. 
He had struck the blow which had proved 
his own death-warrant. The dead man's 
very fear was evidence to Sidney Latimer's 
mind that the expected visitant could be no 
other than Strong Mac. For Ewan was a 
man of powerful physique, reputed the 
strongest and most dangerous fighting man 
in the parish, leaving Roy McOulloch out of 
the question. Who, then, was there for such 
a man to go in fear of, save the man who 
had set out to visit him, on that last night of 
April, with anger in his heart and a grim 
threat on his lips ? 

Then all suddenly there came a thought 
across the young Laird's mind which caused 
the hot blood to flush his cheek. With 
Sandy Ewan dead, and Strong Mac — well, 
out of the way — would not his way stand 
clear to Adora Gracie — if not in one way, 
why, then, in another. Conscious of her 

disgrace, penm'less, outcast, saddled with a 
drunken incubus of a father, she would 
not refuse - no, surely she could not refuse 
— all that he had to offer her. Sidney Latimer 
rose hastily, and picking up his hat went 
out into the stable to saddle his horse. It 
is always in haste that a good man does a 
thing which in his heart he is ashamed of. 



But while the two men, Sidney Latimer and 
Roy McCulioch, stood before the empty 
schoolhouse of Lowran ; while Sandy Ewan 
made his preparations of fear ; while in the 
gaunt library, bare of books but smelling of 
freshest varnish, the last-named stood face 
to face with Doom; while he lay motionless, 
his clenched hands crisped to his side with 
the tension of that last struggle out on the 
Glebe road — where was Adora Gracie ? 

To the other mysterious events which had 
thrown the two parishes of Lowran and 
Kirkanders into a ferment, there was added 
this other —what had become of the Dominie 
and his daughter ? Not that many people 
thought of that. To have an unexplained 
murder and an unsuspected murderer at large 
in one's parish is enough to preoccupy most 
people of quiet country habits. 

But Sidney Latimer thought of it ; also 
his mother. 

She had heard her son let himself in by 
the hall door, and was on the way down to 
make an inquiry — decided upon as she 
descended the stairs — as to whether he 
preferred goose and apple sauce, or cold 
chicken and tongue, for his dinner on the 
morrow. Anything would do. But it was 
necessary to have an excuse for intruding 
upon Sidney in the strange humour which 
had lately come over him. 

But she was saved any further strain upon 
her imagination. W^hile she was still on th.^ 
first landing, the outer door clanged, and all 
that remained of her son was the impression 
on the pillow of the sofa on which he had 
hastily thrown himself down, and as hastily 
quitted. The flowered silk was slowly 
returning to its rounded shape, and as the 
lady of the Great House of Lowran stood 
in the doorway, even that token of her son's 
presence faded away from before her eyes. 
She opened the windows and listened to the 
clatter of horse's hoofs, harsh on the gravel, 
soft over the grass. Then came the click of 
a latch lifted with a riding-crop, an impatient 



word — the hasty anger of a man rebuking in 
his beast the restlessness which agitates him- 
self. To these followed the full gathering 
spring with which a good horse takes its 
head over soft ground. 

Mrs. Latimer listened tilll the sound of 
hoofs was lost in the distance. 

"He has taken the moor road," she mur- 
mured fearfully, as she closed the window in 
that direction. " There is not a house or a 
cottage withiu three miles. If the murderer 
is in hiding anywhere in the parish, it will 
be there ! " 

But the few minutes which Sidney Latimer 
had spent in putting the graith on his beast 
had given him time to alter his first intention. 
He had been resolved to go to St. Cuthberts- 
town, and there to divulge all that he knew 
to the authorities with regard to the murder 
of Alexander Ewan. He believed that they 
would listen to him. He could substantiate 
fact, motive, threat. Indeed, as he told 
himself over and over again, he held Roy 
McCulloch's death-warrant in his hand. 
. But something—not a belief in his rival's 
innocence— held him back. He would first 
of all see Strong Mac face to face. He would 
charge him with his crime, and—yes, he 
would, perhaps, give him a chance to leave 
the country, if he found that the crime had 
been committed witliout premeditation or in 
a fit of sudden anger. 

So Sidney Latimer rode slowly towards 
House of Muir by the road which, many 
years before, had been opened by the broad 
axes of Sharon McCulloch and his sons. His 
thoughts were gloomy within him as he urged 
his beast along. Darkness fell while he was 
still out on the wild breadths of Bennanbrack 
Moor. A brief red twilight flaring in the 
west had soon been overcast by the cloud of 
night which shut down upon it like a gigantic 
eyelid. The road, winding through league 
upon league of heather, shone grey-white 
under his horse's feet. The boulders on 
either side took on mysterious shapes, loom- 
ing up indistinct and uncanny, each fitted to 
shelter a crouching murderer. 

But Sidney Latimer had that on his mind 
—going to confront and accuse a real mur- 
derer — which was sufficient to banish fear. 
He was secret, strong, unsuspected by any 
but himself. What if Strong Mac were 
to repeat the blow that had stretched his 
other rival dead at his feet, and so suppress 
the only possible witness against him ? The 
thought passed across Sidney Latimer's brain, 
but it was at once set aside. 

" Soit! " he said, " He can kill me if he 

likes. But — I will have a few words with 
him first." 

Sidney Latimer was no strong man. , In 
many things be was no better than the 
average of his class and of his time, but at 
least the soul within him was neither little 
nor weak. 

At the corner of the great Barnbavroch 
March — where a former Chesney Bar- 
whinnock had been killed by a discharge 
of his own gun -^Sidney Latimer heard 
something move among the stones with a 
squeaking noise like a weasel in a dyke. His 
horse shied, and Sidney, whose temper was 
not then of the best, gave him the spur 
fiercely. The spirited beast bounded forward, 
and as they passed at full speed through the 
gap in the high march-dyke, something little 
and dark sped across the white thread of the 
moorland track, almost immediately under 
the horse's feet. 

At the same moment Sidney Latimer 
heard again the same strange sound, but 
stronger this time ; indeed, almost birdlike 
in its keenness, half snarl, half cry, which 
mingled with the snort of his frightened 
animal. The horse, also, instead of gradually 
calming down to a steady gait, made a series 
of wild leaps across the moor at right angles 
to the path, and, turning round, presently 
stood still, facing the danger and trembling 
in every limb. 

Sidney dismounted, patted and reassured 
the grey, which blew on him with full 
trembling nostrils. As he stood in front of 
its face, be felt something warm and wTt 
drip upon his knee. He put down his hand, 
and lo ! his fingers encountered the un- 
mistakable gluey touch of warm blood. 
His horse had been wounded. Though it 
was too dark to see clearly, by the sense of 
touch Latimer felt that there was a consider- 
able wound in the loose skin between the 
chest and the gullet. For the moment the 
grey's excitement would permit of no very 
particular examination, but it was clear to 
Sidney that someone or something lurked on 
the moor over which he had passed, at once 
deadly and dangerous. 

The Barnbarroch Dyke was the boundary 
of the property of the McOuUochs. It was 
evident that the danger, whether for him 
or for any intruder, began thei^e. Sidney 
Latimer was in a quandary. To go on was 
to beard a murderer in his chosen place of 
defence; to return was to risk a stab from 
the same weapon which had already wounded 
his horse. 

There were few things which touched 



Sidney Latimer more tban that an animal 
should suffer. He therefore took off liis 
coat, turned it inside out, and, by means of 
the reins, succeeded in extemporising a rough 
dressing for the wound, which, so far as he 
could judge of it in the darkness, staunched 
the flow of blood. He and his horse were 
now out on the moor, away from the path 
which led to the dwelling-house of the 
McCullochs. Sidney was not the less, but 
the more determined to visit House of 
Muir that night, because of the foul attempt 
that had been made upon his life. He did 
not doubt for a moment that it was with 
intent upon the life of the rider that the 
steel had been darted upwards in such 
dastardly fashion. 

For some time he searched about for a 
tree or stone to which he might with safety 
attach his horse, while he continued his 
journey on foot. Chance guided him to one 
of the common " scroggy " thorns — low, 
twisted, misbegotten bushes, their branches 
spread abroad like the claws of crabs, and 
apparently as ancient as the peat-hags tbey 
spring from, which are to be met with on 
most Galloway moors. Having found one, 
he fastened his horse to it, and after an 
affectionate pat or two, set out over the 
heather in the direction of the House of 

Sidney Latimer had not proceeded far 
when he heard a noise behind him, a cry of 
fear and distress almost human. He turned, 
feeling instinctively for a weapon to defend 
himself against the unknown dangers with 
which he seemed to be surrounded. He 
found nothing except his father's riding- 
whip, with the heavily loaded handle, which 
he always carried at night. Sidney hastily 
twisted the lash about his wrist and grasped 
the butt by its thinner extremity. 

But it was only the grey, which, desperate 
at being left at the mercy of the unseen 
enemy that had already wounded him, had 
broken the fastening and now sought his 
master, quivering and panting as if after a 
long race. 

For a moment Sidney Latimer did not 
know how to proceed. His beast was 
wounded, and yet would not be left behind. 
His coat, imperfectly fastened in the dark- 
ness, had been dropped when the animal 
reared in order to snatch itself free from the 
" scroggy " thorn. Nevertheless, something 
drove him on, perhaps the same fatefulness 
which, a few nights ago, had carried Sandy 
Ewan to his doom. The young Laird put 
out his hand and gently felt his horse's 

wound. He decided that it was either 
extremely superlicial or that the cold of the 
night had stopped the bleeding. At all 
events, little was now escaping from the cut. 

The lighted windows of the House of 
Muir were now before him, bright upon the 
long level horizon. He could count them. 
Two were brightly illuminated, one slightly 
so, while a door opened and shut alternately, 
now completely obscured, now sending a 
sudden flood of light over the surface of the 

It was strange how, as Sidney Latimer 
approached the dwellings of men, both his 
own excitement and that of his steed died 
down. The smell of habitation and the 
vicinity of creatures, human and domesticated, 
calmed human nerves as well as those of the 
frightened animal. Instead of requiring 
constant attention and handling, the grey 
now dropped behind with patient docility, as 
if ashamed of his previous behaviour. Nor 
did he make any objections when his master 
fastened him to the ring-bolt of the "louping- 
on-stane " at the gable end of the onstead 
of House of Muir. As was almost universal 
in Galloway, this was a large boulder, to 
which generations of horses had been tied, 
and where for ages the women of the family 
had mounted behind their lords ere they 
took their douce and legal way to kirk and 

Sidney Latimer clearly understood the 
risks of what he was about to do. But now 
he could not go back without qualifying as 
a coward in his own eyes. He was deter- 
mined to speak with Roy McCulloch — if 
possible, alone, and without giving him time 
to consult his father. As he came nearer, 
it seemed as if there were company at the 
House of Muir. He could hear the sound 
of several voices. Some irresistible impulse 
took him past the door in the direction of 
the window through which the light streamed 
most brightly. 

Now, at House of Muir few sacrifices to 
external adornment had been made, and 
save wheie the dyke of the potato-garden 
cut a hard rectangle out of the home parks, 
the grass and heather ran right up to the 
whitewashed walls of the long low dwelling- 

Upon these Sidney Latimer's feet made 
no noise, and presently he stood on the soft 
green turf under the drip of the eaves. He 
looked within, feeling all the while like a 
criminal himself, and not at all like a man 
who had come out to denounce a manslayer. 

The young man could hardly believe his 

" Something little and dark sped across the white thread of the moorland track." 




eyes when he looked through the imperfect 
green whirlpools which served for glass. 
Yet what he saw was plain enough. What 
he had expected to see as he rode across the 
moor was a couple of haggard men, conscious 
of their crime, bandying mutual recrimina- 
tions, or at least the younger and less 
hardened pacing to and fro, or sitting with 
his head in his hands, in the grip of an 
accusing conscience. But whatever was the 
Secret Terror that lurked about the House 
of Sharon McCulloch, whatever the Thing 
of Evil which had struck up at him so 
treacherously at the Dykes of Barnbarroch, 
it was clear in a moment that its influence 
did not reach to the kitchen into which the 
Laird of I^owran was now looking as an 
Israelitish spy might have looked into the 
Promised Land. 

Sidney Latimer saw before him a lighted 
kitchen, smiling contentment, a girl moving 
lightly and easily about, performing the 
little duties of domestic work with the 
facility of long practice. An old man sat at 
the fireside wHth a book in his hand. A 
younger arranged a lamp that the light 
might fall better upon the printed page. 
Such a scene of cheerful domesticity he had 
not seen for many a day, yet the very reason 
of Sidney Latimer seemed to totter in its 
throne as he stood there. If he had not 
leaned against the wall, he would assuredly 
have fallen. For the girl who moved about 
so lightly and with so well accustomed a 
step was none other than Adora Gracie ! 

^ i^f *^ ;;<: * 

Hastily, as if taken in a meanness, Sidney 
shrank away into the darkness. He had 
seen enough, and more. Murderer or not, 
Roy McOulloch was now for ever free from 
any word of his. He could not speak now. 
If he did, he would feel himself worse than 
Sandy Ewan when he decoyed the old 
Dominie to his fate on the day of the 

Sidney Latimer knew the facility of the 
law of Scotland with regard to marriage, and 
he did not doubt for a moment that Adora 
Oracie, situated as she was, burdened with 
the care of her father, had gone straight to 
House of Muir, where at least she was sure 
of welcome and an open door. Then, when 
Roy came back, with whatever of guilt upon 
his hands, there was no doubt that Adora 
would marry him, were it only out of 
gratitude. So Latimer reasoned with himself. 

The young man stood by his wounded 
horse in the darkness, stricken also. From 
the house there came to his ears the sound 

of laughter. Sidney loosened the rope from 
the iron ring and moved away quietly, as if 
ashamed of his mission. 

No, there could be no doubt — none ! 
Adora's whole carriage, her assured step was 
that of a house-mistress. The Dominie, her 
father, was seated by the fire reading his 
book. Roy, by his side, arranged the lamp 
with filial solicitude. Adora and Roy had 
exchanged glances over his head — ah ! the 
inwardness of these glances took Sidney 
Latimer by the throat ! 

A sudden wild access of rage took hold of 
him. The murderer— the man with the 
guilt of blood on his hands — to have that 
for his reward ! He, too-, would go back and 
— end it, or himself be ended. Fool ! what 
good would that do ? He had seen the girl's 
smile — the first perfectly happy smile he had 
ever seen on her lips ! That she loved the man, 
there was no doubt. Well ? Well ? 

Yes, he knew. He had ijb in his power to 
shatter this new-found happiness, as an 
earthen pitcher is shattered with an iron bar. 
Between them and that new-found love of 
theirs he would dangle the hangman's rope. 

So out on the ghastly solitary moor, 
scaring the wild-fowl and the black-faced 
sheep, Sidney Latimer raved, his beast, 
whose own trouble had abated, pushing 
against him at times with moist anxious 
nose, warning him to begone from a neigh- 
bourhood so dangerous to honest horses. 
But gradually the meanness of causing a 
woman to suffer because of his private dis- 
appointment worked upon his spirit. 

" Who am I," he asked himself, " that I 
should lay an information against Roy 
McOulloch — I, who at this very moment 
feel my hands a-tremble with desire to kill ? 
I know my own, but do I know Roy 
McCulloch's provocation ? Let me get away 
— away — never to return ! " 

So, forgetting everything but the desire to 
put a great distance between himself and this 
fatal house, he leaped upon his beast, and 
the frightened animal, partaking of the feel- 
ings of his master, struck through the moor 
at speed. Soon they were at the Dykes of 
Barnbarroch. This time there was nothing 
to be seen. Indeed, there was little time, for 
they passed like a flash, Sidney pulling the 
reins away from the turn of the road which 
led towards Lowran and home. He felt that 
he could not face his mother's anxious 
assiduities that night. She would be w^aiting 
for him. Of that he had no doubt. She 
would have a thousand questions to ask. He 
would ride down towards the sea, find a little 

"'That does the night's work I. Give way, there! 



coaching-inn on the Stranraer road, and 
there abide the night — nay, perhaps longer, 
till he had thought things over and decided 
what it was best for him to do. 

He struck into the sea-road. His beast 
moved easily, seemingly less tired than before. 
It was the dark time just before the birth of 
the dawn. He threw the reins down on the 
grey's neck, and master and horse plunged 
blindly into the unknown. 

How long they wandered thus, lost to 
direction, straying anywhither, cannot now 
be known. The world had come sharply to 
an end for Sidney Latimer. His mouth was 
shut. The girl he loved was bound body 
and soul to a man whom he knew to be a 
murderer ! What mattered anything any 
more ? 

The air grew fresher— more salt upon the 
lips and in the nostrils. They were descending 
from the moorlands tow^ards the little ports 
which dot the shore-line of Galloway here 
and there — the Lake, the Scaur, Balearic, 
Port Mary, Porto warren. But Sidney 
Latimer paid no heed to his going. His 
heart was too exceeding bitter within him ; 
and as for his beast, he only hung a weary 
head and weakly kept four grey feet moving. 

Suddenly out of the ground, as in a dream, 
armed shapes rose all about the young man. 
fie was pulled from his saddle to find himself 
in the thick of a fierce combat. A blow was 
stricken which stunned him, and he was 
thrown hastily along with several others into 
the bottom of a boat. 

" That does the night's work ! " cried a 
voice. " Give way, there ! " 

i^s >H 5;« sji * 

The next morning what a crying of men 
there was athwart all the country ! The 
young Laird of Lowran had been assassinated 
by the McOullochs, the poachers of House of 
Muir. His coat, all bloody and turned inside 
out, had been found on tlieir property. His 
footsteps had been found and measured at 
their very gable- end. His riding-whip was 
lying at their louping-on-stane. There 
were signs of a struggle at the Barnbarroch 
Marclies. His horse, wounded and (some 
said) dying, had been found straying on the 
cliffs near the Gate House of Gaily. Happily 
both of the murderers were in custody, after 
a desperate resistance on the part of the 
younger, a dangerous character who had been 
recently released from gaol. 

The motive, of course, was jealousy. Young 

men will be young men. The disgraced 
Dominie's daughter of Lowran was actually 
at the time in the house of the culprits, and 
the Laird had gone to see her. Hence the 
quarrel, and the murder to follow. All was 
rounded, clear, complete. And upon the 
killing of Sandy Ewan, also, light, lurid and 
sudden, seemed to break. Dickie Dick and 
his friend recalled to themselves with curious 
unanimity, and were ready to swear — did, in 
fact, so take oath — that the voice which they 
had heard in their master's room, on the 
night of the murder of Sandy Ewan upon 
the Glebe road, was none other than that of 
Roy McCulloch ! 

Bands of men (so ran the report) were 
out everywhere searching for the body of the 
murdered Laird —which, strangely enough, 
had not yet been found. On the other hand, 
the McCullochs were safe in the gaol of St. 
. Cuthbertstown, under lock and key-- and 
well for them that it was so ! For the 
countryside was up, and they would have 
had an excellent chance of being torn to 
pieces. Among other things, the girl— the 
first cause of all, had gotten her deserts. Ah ! 
she had long been known to sundry good 
.Christian people for what she was ! They 
had always said so ! Perhaps someone would 
listen to them next time ! 

She and her drunken father liad been 
turned to the door of House of Muir by the 
officers of the law. It had been asked of 
her if she could show any proof of a legal 
right to remain where she was ; and when 
she could not or would not answer, she and 
her father had found themselves upon the 
heather. "And serve them right ! " cried 
these same apocalyptic Christian folk, who 
are for ever pouring out vials and blowing 
trumpets over their neighbours' misfortunes. 
If all such were put in prison, the country 
would be the better ! And at this point 
large quotations were made from the early 
chapters of the Proverbs of Solomon, son 
of David, king in Israel — who certainly 
ought to have known what he was talking 

Thus the House of Muir, which but yester- 
night had been so bright, filled from end to 
end with light and life, and the joy of 
seemingly settled happiness, w^as in a moment 
left desolate. And down in the Great House 
of LowTan there were two women who 
mourned also, both one and also the other of 
them, as for an only son. 

(To he continued.) 


By S. R. Lewison. 

WHEN a friend told me there was 
a fish-pond in Scotland holding 
tame salt-water fish that came half 
out of the water to be fed, I pretended to 
believe him, for my tendency is to be 
courteous to all men. I said no word to 
indicate a doubt, I did not even follow the 
example of the sceptical sacristan in one of 
the Ingoldsby Ijegends. Tame carp I have 
seen — at Versailles, in tbe grounds of the 
Penha Castle at Cintra, and elsewhere ; sea- 
water fish, I thought, could only be domes- 
ticated in the sense that flying-fish and 
dolphins or sharks may be deemed domesti- 
cated, because they follow ships. Moreover, 
travellers' tales are amusing. I could tell 
many a strange story of animals I have seen 
in far-olT lands. I do not, because they are 
true tales and would not be believed. The 
fish story I set down in the category of 
travellers' tales, only thinking the tame fish 
should have been located in some less acces- 
sible spot than Galloway, for the sake of the 
story. Some months later than the telling 
of the tale, I was in Wigtonshire with my 
friend, and on a fine afternoon in early 
autumn, he said : " Shall we go to see the 
tame fish I told you about ? " Not liking 
to take advantage of the man, I said that I 
would not press the matter, and then he 
began to see that I had certain doubts. 

We drove out in the direction of Port 
Logan, through strange, wild country. On 
the right were hills sweeping down into 
stone-dyked fields or small copses, where 
rabbits could be counted by the score, and 
pheasants walked about ignorant of October 
looming large in the immediate future. It 
was a sportsman's paradise that we were 
driving through, a land where game is very 
plentiful and human beings are very scarce, 
a land that should yield an abundant 
harvest to the agriculturist, whose difficulty 
would lie less in raising crops than in finding 
a market for them. The two big landowners 
of the district are Sir Mark Stewart, M.P., 
and the Laird of Logan, Mi*. Kenneth 
MacDowall ; and though the former has 
endeavoured to secure a light railway for the 
country, the opposition has hitherto been 
too strong. So the place remains wild, 
though under cultivation ; fur and feather 
live with nothing to mar their happiness 
save an occasional shooting-party or a visit 
from poachers ; pheasants, partridges, and 
rabbits may be seen in the roadway, though 
human beings are very scarce. To the right 
were the hills, to the left was the sea, before 
us the white road ran as far as the eye could 
follow. If anything could rival the quality 
of the scenery, it was the air that came in 
from the sea— strong, invigorating, heavily 




charged with ozone. 
It intensified the feel- 
ing of regret that so 
few should enjoy gifts 
and vie^our in their 

that brought health 

We drove through part of the well- 
appointed Logan estate, where I think I saw 
more rabbits than I have ever seen before, 
even down south in fields stretching away 
from warrens that had been ferreted on the 
previous day for the benefit of the shooting- 
party. Apart from the rabbits, which must 
be too plentiful and too tame to attract, 
there were suggestive turnip-fields, doubtless 
holding many a strong-winged covey ; coverts 
wherein the pheasants might live at their 
ease until the fatal day when the beaters go 
down the runs, and the guns are placed 
beyond the far edge ; and a big enclosed wood 
far up on a hill top, and said to harbour 
deer. When we left the road through the 
fields, the highway led through a well-wooded 
road down to the little fishing village of Port 
Logan, a small settlement of white stone 
houses that reminded me strongly of a tiny 

town on the Algarve coast, 
where I once stayed in 
order to join the tunny- 
fishers for the short three 
days during which the 
giant fish, having come 
mysteriously from the 
unknown depths of the 
Atlantic, yielded the 
tribute by which the little 
place lived throughout the 
year. The only difference 
lay in the approaches and 
the cleanliness. There 
were no roads to Albu- 
fuera, only bridle -tracks 
among the hills ; accom- 
modation was obtainable 
in houses that made the 
visitor ardently desire the 
open air. Most of the 
vessels of the tunny- 
fishers leaked so much 
that half the crew had to 
bale for dear life, and 
there was not a whole 
suit of clothes in the 
place. Eumours of 
strange fish took me to 
Albufuera; similar 
rumours took me to Port 
Logan ; but this last is a 
clean, well-built place, 
and the people we saw about looked healthy 
and well nourished. We left the village 
on our left and made our way to a 
small white cottage with out - buildings 
lying at the eastern point of the bay. The 
pony rested contentedly by a gate, and we 
w^alked to the cottage, while from the hill 
that rose on our right the rabbits stared at 
us inquisitively. A burly fisherman, whose 
red beard did not match his blue jersey, 
came out of the cottage and took our 
measure silently. Then he turned to the 
little door by the side of the cottage and 
briefly remarked : " This way." He had 
divided two words between the pair of us — 
not without an effort. The door opened 
suddenly on to a flight of stone steps leading 
to what looked like a well hewn out of the 
solid rock, with edges made smooth by the 
ebb and flow of countless tides. There was 
an opening low down on one side, through 
which the sea came and went, keeping the 
waters of the pool fresh and clean. The 
laconic fisherman took up a basket containing 
many unappetising curios, doubtless dear to 
fish, but reminding me of the goods purveyed 


on barrows at street corners in the heart of 
a London slum on a Saturday night, when 
vendors, whom no careful man would touch 
with the far end of a forty-foot pole, 
persuade the proletariat to buy the dainties 
in "ha'porths" and "penn'orths," and merci- 
fully disguise the flavour with strong pepper 
and vinegar. Our guide reached the lowest 
step, waved his basket, and whistled. 

Never came trout to "May fly so readily as 
a score of unmistakable sea-fish came from 
all parts of the pool, scrambling and jostling 
against one another as though they had been 
playing football under Association rules. 
They came to the edge of the step, and there 
they rested until their guardian took some 
of the nasty delicacies and offered them. 
Straightway certain of the cod-fish put their 
heads out of the water to within half an inch 
or less of their gills, and took the food with 
a joyful but ill-bred gulp. If the fisher- 
man threw the food far out, the race was to 
the swift ; if he handed it by the edge, the 
battle was to the strong. There were cod- 
fish, haddock, and other rovers of the sea, 
all thriving, fat, and happy. They took no 
notice of us, simply because we showed no 
anxiety to handle their food, but they were 
in no way disturbed by our presence or 
scrutiny. The cod were, perhaps, the boldest ; 
the haddocks, being smaller and less able to 
thrive in the struggle for existence, swam at 

the back of their companions and took their 
chance when food was thrown well beyond 
the edge. Then they raced, swallowed it, 
and returned to their accustomed place with 
a melancholy air apparently intended to 
deceive the cod-fish, who might be able to 
make life unpleasant for them did they so 
desire. For half an hour we watched these 
curious fish, until the basket was empty and 
the fish were tired of swimming to the edge 
of the water, and saying, through the medium 
of the gasping noise I have referred to : " We 
have not had half enough." If some ichthyo- 
logist would do for these fish what Professor 
Garner has done for apes, I am sure that our 
knowledge would be greatly increased. As 
no professor was at hand, I turned to the 
laconic fisherman. " They are a remarkable 
faiyily," I said encouragingly. " Ah ! " he 
replied, in the tone of a man who has heard 
a remark before ; and then added : " I'm told 
Barnum's got tame seals." In a moment I 
realised why the worthy fisherman looked so 
sad. Barnumand Bailey had been at Stranraer 
on the previous day, and all the countryside 
for miles round had been to the greatest noise 
— I mean, greatest show — on earth. When 
the quiet lives of the country-folk suffer 
from such an excitement as a circus, there is 
a violent upheaval of the regular mode of 
life, and for days it is difficult to settle down 
into the old routine. The custodian of the 

THE keeper's house. 



tame fish had seen clowns 
and elephants, and bearded 
ladies and riders of the 
haute ecole, and other 
strange animals after their 
kind ; he had heard more 
noise in an hour than he is 
accustomed to hear in a 
year ; and now all the 
pageantry had passed, his 
life, so flamboyant for a 
few brief hours, had re- 
sumed i.ts drab monotony. 

Carefully restraining my 
own feelings about Barnum 
and Bailey in particular, 
and all circuses in general, 
I led the fisherman to talk 
of the performing seals, 
and punctuated his dis- 
course with notes of ex- 
clamation and admiration, 
until he came out of his 
shell and readily told me 
the history of the pool and 
its inhabitants. 

He pointed out some 
writing on the stone wall 
facing the steps. It was 
the record of a bygone 
Laird of Logan who had 
the pool hollowed in the 
rock one hundred years 
ago. There was a natural 
depression in those days, 
of which the builder took advantage, and a 
long period of hard work had made the place 
as it is to-day. On one side, as I have said, 
there is access for the rising tide, and as the 
outlet is cross-barred, the fish cannot escape 
with the ebb of the waters. There is no 
need to suppose they would escape if they 
could. If several generations of the family 
have passed, the fish have not survived them ; 
the present inhabitants have only been in 
the pool for a few years. Now and again, at 
long intervals, the tide does not reach the 
pool, and the fish mope and die ; in seasons 
of storm it rises far above the ordinary level ; 
the steps have been submerged, and the water 
has come within a short distance of the 
cottage level, and then the fish suffer ; but 
the weather that affects the fish-pond comes 
rarely, and the captives live long. The fisher- 
man told me that to the best of his knowledge 
there have always been one or two tame fish 
in the water, and they have helped to tame 
the new-comers. In addition to being an 
attraction, the pond serves as a store at times, 


when fish is desirable and the storms forbid 
fishermen to leave the shore. When it needs 
replenishing, the fishermen go out and cast 
their nets. A tank in one of the boats serves 
to bring the newly caught fish safely to shore, 
and they are carried to the pool. The taming 
is not an easy matter. For more than a year 
the captives are wild and sullen ; some do nob 
thrive at all. However, time works wonders ; 
and as visitors must be few and far betw^een, it 
is hardly surprising to learn that the example 
of the tame fish is slowly followed, and the 
wild ones learn to respond to the whistle of 
the fisherman when he comes down the stone 
steps carrying provisions. The most curious 
and incredible action is the rising from the 
water. That the fish should come to the 
edge of the pool is not surprising ; but until 
one has seen them, it is hard to believe that 
they raise themselves right out of the water 
and snap at the food like half-trained dogs. 

From what the fisherman said, I am dis- 
posed to believe that only the thick-gilled 
fish can thrive there, and only these would 



try to get out of the water to reach their 
food. The angler knows that a carp taken 
from the water will live much longer than a 
trout, that herrings and mackerel die quickly 
after leaving the water, while eels and cod 
remain alive for some time. It is likely that 
these gilled and gregarious fish w^ould not 
live in the fish-pond ; while the sturdy species, 
that travel singly and can remain out of water 
for some little time, wonld live and be tamed. 
The fisherman's duties are not quite in 
the nature of a sinecure. To be sure, the 
ebb and flow of the tide make cleanins: 


operations unnecessary ; but the food supply 
must be constant, and entails a long search 
over the rocks for mussels, limpets, whelks, 
and other things whose apparent justification 
for existence is to be found in the favour 
with which fish regard them. If, as is 
likely, the extremely cold weather freezes the 
pool, and the fisherman in charge has to 
serve it as a decoyman serves his pipes and 
pond, then the winter at the fish-pond must 
make up in hard labour for what it lacks in 

In the summer the fish-pond attracts 
a large number of 
visitors, consider- 
ing the extreme 
remoteness of the 
place from all 
large towns, while 
winter and summer 
alike it may be 
seen without fee. 
The fish do not 
appear to quarrel, 
though the new- 
comers keep as far 
away as tbey can 
from the oldest in- 
habitants ; the big 
ones do not prey 
upon the rest, a 
fact that the 
regular and suffi- 
cient supply of 
food for all may 
perhaps explain. 
Apparently no one 
of the owners of 
the fish-pond has 
turned his curious 
possession to ac- 
count for the pur- 
pose of studying 
the habits of sea- 
fish ; it may be 
that many interest- 
ing discoveries 
would have been 
the outcome of 
sustained observa- 
tion. I have en- 
deavoured to learn 
something about 
the habits of fish 
in every part of 
the world where 
sport has been 
obtainable, and 
particularly in the 



Mediterranean Sea, where very many and 
varied species of fish are to be found. 
Aristotle knew more than a hundred 
species of fish inhabiting the ^gean Sea, 
and he wrote more than two thousand 
years ago. From whalers down to salmon- 
poachers I have gone in search of fish -lore, 
only to find that no man has learned more 
than is absolutely necessary for him to 
secure the best possible catch in the shortest 
possible time. It is reasonable to believe 
that more was known about fish three or 
four thousand years ago than is known 
to-day. I will put forward a single justifica- 
tion for this assertion. We all know that the 
Mosaic Code forbids the eating of certain 
fish— all, in fact, that lack fins and scales. 
Modern research has not done much in the 
study of ichthyology, but has demonstrated 
that the fish lacking fins and scales are the 
scavengers of the ocean, that they live upon 
its impurities. This, with 
many another truth whose 
value we are beginning 
tardily to recognise, was 
known to Moses and 
probably to the Egyptians. 
Observation must have been 
careful and prolonged, even 
though most traces of it are 
lost. It cannot be carried 
on with much success in 
an aquarium, for all the 
surroundings are artificial ; 
in such a place as the 
Logan fish-pond the ways 
of certain classes of fish 
could be studied at leisure. 
The Logan pond has 
served at least to show that 
fish can be kept in a half 
wild condition and can be 
trained to an extent that 
permits sustained observa- 
tion. A fish-pond estab- 
lished in some spot equally 
quiet, and withal more 
readily accessible, would 
give a valuable chance 
to ichthyologists. There 
would be no difficulty about 
keeping it stocked and sup- 
plied with food ; and so 
long as the tide had free 
and regular ingress and 
egress, the fish would remain 
in their natural state. 
Every species of strong, 
thick -gilled fish could be 

studied in turn, and the result of putting 
one class with another accurately noted. The 
great difficulty hitherto attendant upon 
research has been the inability of pelagic 
fishes to endure any change of water. Sea- 
water may be the same to the taste all the 
world over ; fish know the difference and 
are exceedingly sensitive to it. Such a ;^ond 
would not be of great scientific value, since 
it would deal with very few of the innumerable 
varieties of fish, and would leave many classes 
quite untouched ; but it would avail to add 
largely to our general l^nowledge. If ponds 
could be established in the five great zones 
that embrace the varied classes of fish we 
know something about — say, for example, in 
the Behring Straits, the Mediterranean, the 
South Sea Islands, Tasmania, and the Falk- 
land Islands, the results of careful observa- 
tion would probably repay the trouble and 


" ' I never knew Captain Piper 

go back on his word,' he pro- 




Y the mark five ! " sang 
out the leadsman, as 
the Vigo swung slowlj 
round to her anchor. 
The captain came 
doAvn from the bridge, 
rubbing his hands to 
warm them ; for it 
was Christmas Eve, 
and the wind had a snap of the East in it. 

" Now, gentlemen," he cried cheerily to 
the group by the companion-way, " we'll take 
our little bit of dinner. It's blowing big 
guns in the Channel, so we'll just stop snug 
here in the river for to-night." 

" You don't hurry on this line," remarked 
the passenger pleasantly. He was an over- 
worked journalist, doing the round to Malaga 
and back for his liver's sake. 

The captain tucked his napkin into his neck 
as a preliminary. *' No, sir," he remarked 
severely, " we don't. You take soup? " The 
passenger did take soup. " You see, speed 
means coals, and my owners kick at big coal 
bills. No, sir ! The Vigo ain't a mail. 
Trouble you for the pepper, Mr. Wilson." 

" Talking of pepper," said the mate, as he 
handed the cruet, " I went to see the Old Man 
yesterday. He's bad. Dying, the doctor says." 

The passenger glanced up, and caught the 
look of relief which flickered across the 
captain's face. 

" Who is the Old Man ? " he asked. 

" The Old Man, sir, is Captain Joseph 
Piper, late of the Vigo, dismissed by his 
owners for smuggling watches in Spain. 
My mate there has a curious notion about 
him, but it seems to me that this bit of news 




knocks the bottom out of it. Eh, Mr. 

" Maybe," said the mate uneasily, " may- 
be. I don't say it does, though." 

Then he turned to the passenger. 

" I never knew Captain Piper go back on 
his word," he pronounced slowly ; " and when 
he said he'd navigate the Vigo again some 
day in spite of the owners, I believed he'd 
do it. Maybe I believe it still." 

15m 1 tell you it is the voice of Death, calling to someone 
aboard here ! ' " 

" Rubbish ! " said the captain testily. 
"You say yourself he's dying." 

The mate sliook his head and was silent. 
And the captain, after sweai'ing at the 
steward to relieve himself, politely changed 
the subject. His yarn Was number one of 
the carefully selected stock which served 
as the calendar of these voyages. 

The mate had heard it before. 

" It's a beautiful sight," said the passenger 
two nights later. " But very awful. Ever 
seen anything like it before ? " 

The Viffo was dropping clumsy curtsies to 
a fractious sea in the chops of the Channel. 
Her ropes were stiff with the frozen spray, 
and round her the snow was falling in fine, 
hard flakes. The night was moonless and 
black, but every part of the ship sparkled 
with flashing points of light. For each flake 
of snow, as it touched rope 
or spar, gave out a tiny 
needle of electricity. The 
snowstorm was on fire. 

The passenger's arm, as he 
swept it through the air, set 
free hundreds of the frozen 
flame-imps, and made a glow- 
ing circle of cold blue light 
in the blackness. 

"Yes," said the mate 
gloomily, " I have — once. 
And when the sun rose next 
morning, I was without a 

" Wrecked ? " 

The mate nodded, and a 
score of the little batteries 
discharged themselves on his 
cap and beard. 

^'Absit omen ! " murmured 
the passenger nervously. 
" You're not reassuring." 

" Listen to me, sir," was 
the excited answer. " You 
hear the faint whispering 
sound in the air ail about us ? 
The sound made by all these 
crackling sparks of electricity, 
you say. But I tell you it is 
the voice of Death calling to 
someone aboard here ! I know, 
because I've heard it before. 
Look at the sea, dancing and 
quivering like a plate of 
calves' foot jelly, though 
there's not enough wind to 
blow a match out. And I've 
just been in to look at the 
glass^-an inch and a half down in the last 
three hours ! It's going to be an awful 
night, I tell you ; and when the morning 
comes, I've a notion I shan't be here to 
see it." 

The passenger laughed — the short, mirth- 
less laugh of a man who is afraid. The 
mate misinterpreted the laugh. . 

" You think I'm a coward ? " he went on 
quickly. " I'm not ! I've known the sea too 

" The shadowy figure turned round angrily and waved him back." 



long for that. But — there's my little girl, 
you see. She'll be an orphan." 

He brushed his sleeve across his face, and 
at the movement the snowflakes sparkled like 
laughing eyes. 

" I tell you what it is," said the passenger. 
.*' You're out of sorts, man. Does the captain 
share your fears ? " 

The mate stiffened, and the lines on his 
face ,2:rew deep and wrathful. 

" The captain, sir, is in his cabin, where 
he will stay." 

" What ? Not if his ship is in danger ? " 

" I say,, where he will stay. Maybe till 
Death comes to IooTj for him there ! " And 
then with slow emphasis he added : " Haven't 
you found out yet that the Vigo is not a 
teetotal ship ? " 

" You mean • ? " 

" Yes," said the mate, and turning on his 
heel, went forward. 

;Sc ;^ :^ j^s :^ 

With a harsh, ripping noise, like the simul- 
taneous tearing of hundreds of pieces of 
calico, the wind forced itself under the cover 
of the port lifeboat. There was a flash of 
white painted wood flying through the air, 
and the boat was left open to the seas which 
broke high over the hurricane deck. The 
passenger lashed himself to the engine-room 
grating and prepared to make a critical study 
of the storm, to be turned into copy at the 
end of the voyage, if 

The snow w^as falling still, but now the 
flakes were big and soft and had lost their 
electric brilliancy. In the thick darkness 
the wind drove them in black, level lines 
across the ship and over the crests of the 
water-hills. From time to time, as the Vigo 
stumbled down into tlie intervening valleys, 
she seemed to drop suddenly out of the power 
of the wind and to leave the horizontal 
snowstorm far above her. A dim, shadowy 
figure was crouching on the bridge, and in 
the comparative quiet of the black valleys 
the passenger fancied he could hear the 
querulous ringing of the engine-room bell. 

Presently, in one of the lulls between the 
beats of the storm-pulse, he saw the mate 

coming towards him. Leaning tip against 
the wind as against a solid wall, the man 
struggled forward and clung to the grating 
beside the passenger. He broke out into a 
shout of harsh, crackling laughter. 

" Where are we ? " bawded the passenger. 

" How should I know ? Fifty miles from 
Ushant, maybe. Five, maybe. Or less ! " 

" Where's the captain ? " 

" In his cabin. Drunk." 

" Then who is that on the bridge ? " 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! Who's that on the 
bridge? That's the Old' Man— Captain 
Joseph Piper. I told you he would come to 
navigate us ! " 

And with a weird, bubbling laugh, the 
mate let go the grating and was swallowed 
by the darkness. 

On the deck amidships a man crawled 
forward on his hands and knees, lurching 
heavily against the obstacles in his way, and 
cursing the Vigo for a lubberly rocking- 
horse. He was the Vigo's captain. Slowly 
he climbed up on to the hurricane deck and 
reached the bridge-stair. There he stopped, 
and satisfied with having accomplished his 
purpose, smiled vacantly at the snowflake.; 
which blinded him. 

A beam of light fighting its way through 
the curtain of snow passed over the ship 
and was gone. Through the turmoil of the 
storm, a duller, hoarser roar arose and 
hushed the lesser sounds. The drunken 
captain heard it and was sobered. ^ 

'' The Ushant light ! " he yelled, as he 
struggled on to the bridge. " We're in the 
breakers ! " " 

The shadowy figure turned round angrily 
and waved him back. A breaking sea raced 
white and hungry from the blackness astern. 
The shaft of light shone once more through 
the snow, more brightly this time. 

The Vigo rose high on the curl of the 
wave. Then down, down, until the sharp 
rocks crashed through her hull. There was 
a wild shriek, the agony of rending timbers 
and of dying men. 

And when the shaft of light came round 
again, it fell on nothing but the tempest. 



T^THETHER we liked it or no, we had 
y y JSgjpt on our hands. This was in 
1882 ; the French, thinking to 
leave us in a dilemma, had sailed away from 
Alexandria, entrusting the fate of the oldest 
of Empires to ""perfide Albion.'' 

surplus. Its debt might be paid off at any 
time on good terms for the country and the 
bondholders, were it desirable to do so. 

Irrigation is the life of Egypt ; agri- 
culture its only source of revenue. Taking 
Lord Dufferin's advice, we brought our 
trained engineers from 
India, and financial experts 
from the same school of 
management of native states. 
Some of our best military 
experts were selected to see 
if the Egyptian conscripts 
— who had earned an ugly 
reputation for running away 
— could be made into de- 
fenders of their country. 



The Egyptian Army, 
corrupted by Arabi, was 
in revolt and held the 
forts of Alexandria. 
Tewfik was a prisoner 
in his palace, and Cairo 
at the point of sack 
and pillage. A. general 
massacre of Christians 
was hourly expected, 
and we had not a British 
soldier in Egypt to pro- 
tect our interests. Thus 
left alone, our Fleet acted with vigour, 
bombarded Alexandria, seized the Suez Canal, 
and landed troops to crush Arabi at Tel-el- 
Kebir. All was so quickly done that when 
the insurgent mob was about to burn down 
Cairo, the British flag was found to be flying 
on the citadel ! We had grasped our nettle. 

We may well look back with pride upon 
our work of twenty years. We found Egypt 
in a state of national bankruptcy ; now it is 
iiot only solvent, but shows annually a large 



This has proved a success. It could hardly 
be anything else in the hands of such men 
as Grenfell and Kitchener, Wingate and 
Macdonald. The yellow and black men, 
who under the old native system were worth- 
less as soldiers, under British officers' training 
became the conquerors of the Dervishes. 

Justice is administered to rich and poor 
alike, the water apportioned fairly to pasha 
or peasant, and taxation has been reduced. 
If the Nile fails to rise, no rent is demanded, 
and the taxes are fixed according to the yield 



of the land. The fellaheen, oppressed for 
ages, have now a better chance than their 
ancestors ever dreamt of, and that they are 
benefiting is shown by their flocks and 
herds, which under British rule have in- 
creased tenfold and upwards. 

All this and much more had been accom- 
plished by the talent, devotion, and dogged 
perseverance of a handful of British heroes 
under such men as Lord Cromer and Sir 
William Garstin for the civil departments, 
and Lord Grenfell, Lord Kitchener, and Sir 
Eeginald Wingate for the military. L^riga- 
tion had Sir Colin Scott Moncrieff and 
Sir E. Hanbury Brown, R.E. Many other 
names might be mentioned whose duty has 
called them away to other lands, and many, 
alas ! have left their bones in Egypt. The 
great reservoirs for 
storing the Nile 
waters, designed by 
Sir William Will- 
cocks, are com- 
pleted, without 

carry the war into the enemy's camp, and 
Lord Cromer wisely chose Kitchener for the 
final crushing of the Dervish power. This 
great general had earned his spurs in Egypt, 
and with his usual calcnlating foresight, 
engineered his military railways, planned 
his campaign, counting the cost beforehand. 
We needed half a- million sterling, and this 
sum Lord Cromer proposed to borrow from 
the " Caisse de la Dette." 

It was the natural place to apply to for a 
short loan for Egypt's use, seeing that it 
liad now a surplus, under our management 
of the country, of three millions sterling. 
The French interfered, and the money was 
refused ! Here again the French thought 
they had us in a difficulty. But they were 
mistaken. Kitchener went on with Ins pre- 

— AM) thp: khalifas house, omdukm an. 

costing the country a farfching. These will 
prevent the possibility of famine in seasons 
when the Nile fails to rise, as happened 
in 1902. 

AYe got into disgrace over the Grordon 
affair. Our Government sent him to 
Khartoum to parley with brutal fanatics, 
and when he was in jeopardy, delayed its 
efforts to save the hero's life. The Dervishes 
were thus allowed to get the mastery over 
Central Africa and to become a menace 
to Egypt. It was part of their programme 
to sack and burn Assouan, Cairo, and 
Alexandria. This was frustrated by Lord 
Grenfell, who arrested their progress at 
Toski, and with the aid of the new Egyptian 
Army, the Dervishes were utterly rented. 
But some years later it became necessary to 

A\ HISTORIC contrast: 


parations, the half mil- 
lion being advanced by 
the British Exchequer. 
Shortly afterwards 
Egyptian and British 
troops conquered Khar- 
toum and dispersed the 
Dervish hordes. But 
when the conquerors'' 
hoisted over the ruins of 

banners were 
Gordon's Residency, the British flag w^ent 
up simultaneously witli the Egyptian one, 
and tlie Sudan vvas proclaimed to be jointly 
the realm of Great Britain and of Egypt. 
So again the French, when planning mischief, 
had done us a lasting service. The govern- 
ment of the wide Sudan is now a part of our 
Imperial duty. " Our mission was not that 
of subjugating the Sudanese, but that of 
clearing the country, for them, of the pre- 
datory and bloodthirsty intruders who for 
so many years had laid it waste." 

By the annexation of the Sudan the 
frontier line was moved almost as far as 
the Equator, and it was now possible to 
visit Khartoum. Last year (1902) I arrived 
at Assouan after a pleasant voyage from 



Cairo on the dahaheah of a 
friend, and found announced 
the " New Sudan Express," 
by steamer and railway, 
occupying about a week. 
This was just what I wanted, 
and so I engaged my passage 
for Khartoum. The Gov- 
ernment steamer Ibis was 
waiting for us at Philae, 
and away we steamed to 
Korosko, where we anchored 
for the night. This had 
been a busy mihtary camp 
when I was there before, 
and the sentries were quad- 
rupled, while the soldiers 
lay down every night armed. 
The Dervishes had raided 
villages and kept all the 
land in terror. Now the 
place was comparatively de- 
serted, order being kept by 
a few native policemen. 
This used to be the starting-point of the 
caravans, by the Murad wells to Abu Hamed. 
Next day we visited some of the Nubian 
temples, small but interesting. One is found 
every ten miles or so along the river. The 
next night was passed at Abu Simbel, the 
greatest rock temple in the world, the vain- 
glorious monument of Rameses the Great. 



I suppose he had trouble in subduing 
the Nubians, and to frighten them carved 
out of the rock four gigantic statues of 
himself. They are seated figures, seventy 
feet high, and a great temple is excavated 
behind them. Why he made such an 
enormous thing in a desolate region is hard 
to understand, but there may have been a 
town, now swal- 
lowed up in the 
sand. Tlie de.^.ert 
encroaches here so 
much that the great 
monument has fre- 
quently to be freed 
from it. The very 
existence of this 
temple, for such it 
is, was unknown till 
about eighty years 
ago. I had with 
me a supply of 
magnesium wire, 
and the sailors lit 
up the great cham- 
bers, all guarded 
by colossal Osirean 
figures of the great 

Remarkable is the 
stupendous fayade ; 
there is a calm 
dignity about the 
huge seated figures 
of the Pharaoh. 




His children crowd about his knees, and the 
daughter — who is said to have been the 
patron of the Hebrew Lawgiver — stands at 
his right hand. Of course, these are mere 
samples of the family. As • he had 172 
children, there would not be space for the 
whole household. 

The steamer stops at Wadi Haifa, whence 
the excursion to the Second Cataract is made, 
and time given to visit it by land or by water. 
This world of waters is a wonderful sight from 
a high rock named Abu Seir. We feel as if 
we could see to the Equator, over a weird 
waste of brown, *yellow, and black islets, 

Photo by] ir. Hey man, Cairo. 


British Ministtr Plenipotentiary in Egypt. 

here and there a foamy track, and then an 
expanse of still water, reflecting the azure 
above. Some day our adventurous engineers 
will build a dam here, impounding the Nile 
flood backwards for hundreds of miles, to 
restore the lost fertility of the Northern 
Sudan. From our lofty point of view we 
can see the localities of the once impreg- 
nable strongholds of Kummeh and Semneh, 
so long held by the ancient Egyptians, as far 
back as the Twelfth Dynasty. • 

Large supplies of gold were derived from 
this part of the Sudan ; whether mined in 
the country or brought by caravans from 
some distance, is not known ; but the 

geological survey of the Sudan, now in 
progress, will soon settle this point. Recently 
the ruins of ancient mining operations have 
been found, and steps are being taken to 
work them anew. 

Back to Haifa to rejoin our express. We 
find the little train waiting. The engine and 
carriages are up-to-date, everything new^ and 
compact, a curious thing to see in the wide 
waste of desert. Steam is up, dining and 
sleeping cars already sparkling with electric 
light, the officials in their new uniforms 
drawn up to receive us ; the station-master 
resplendent, a tall gentleman of polished 
black-lead complexion, and most affably 
voluble in some unknown tongue which 
none of us understood. But he means well, 
and his broad smile is contagious. Then 
the conductor steps out, a tall Austrian 
speaking all languages, and we are told that 
dinner will be served immediately. And an 
excellent repast it is, well served, and so 
quietly that the train moves off w^hile we 
are engaged at our meal, and imperceptibly 
we are forging ahead across the level desert, 
without station, well, or village, for over 
two hundred miles. At rare intervals we 
pass small blockhouses giving shelter to 
two lonely watchers, who signal "All right ! " 
by flags. These lonely huts are playfully 
labelled " Station No. 1," etc., writ large in 

There is no moon, and we plunge into total 
darkness ; then, when our eyes get accus- 
tomed to it, the unrivalled southern sky is 
" thick inlaid with patines of bright gold," 
and the too much vaunted "Southern Cross" 
shines ahead. We turn into our comfort- 
able beds early. The train is the steadiest of 
its kind, and we have more space than 
usual, though our gauge is but three feet six 
inches ; the carriages are of a new pattern, 
planned at the railway works at Haifa and 
built in England. I awoke early and drew 
my curtains. The light was bursting in, and 
I thought the sun was up ; but it was the 
foreglow, which comes often half an hour 
before sunrise, and is very beautiful, every 
tint of orange, yellow, red, and purple flash- 
ing upwards across the blue. Then the sun 
rose with a bound and flooded the whole 
barren desert with dazzling gold. There 
are, here and there on the horizon, conical 
masses of ruddy rock exactly like pyramids. 
These catch the sunlight and seem to be*on 
fire, and being of volcanic origin, with 
patches of white and black, they have a very 
igneous aspect. 

On either side the desert seems illimitable. 



Photo hy'] 

[Maull <£• Fox, 

One of His Majesty's Secretaries of Stale. 

As the day advances, delusive mirag:e sug- 
gests groves of palms and pools of water, 
,™ _^ reflecting 

^^^4-'- .» , " lovely 

of p a r k - 
like scen- 
ery. Flocks 
of pelicans 
are seen, 
and even 
camels and 
their way. 
All is un- 
and non- 
e xis tent, 
and van- 
ishes as it 
had come, 
out of 
n thing, 
into space ; 

and as far as tlie eye can reach, the truth of 

the howling wilderness becomes apparent. 
The passage by this 

desert formerly occu- 
pied a fortnight, and 

it was a most danger- 
ous journey. Only a 

few years ago 700 

camels perished here- 
abouts, and but two 

men escaped to tell 

the fate of an entire 

caravan. We now 

make the journey in 

about fifteen hours, 

by one of the most 

comfortable trains de 


This straight cut 

across the desert has 

saved us much time, 

but we have lost the 

scenery of two of the 

most interesting 

bends, about 500 miles 

of the winding river. 

Lord Kitchener was 

in haste to reach 

Khartoum, and saved 

six- months by taking 

the railway by this 

short cut. But it is 

of no use for the rule 

under Pax Britan- 

nica, and sooner or later must 
along the edge of the Nile all 

be relaid 
the way. 



Surveyor and originator of the new 
Nile Beserooirs. 

Photo by"] 


Sirdar of the British Forces in Egypt. 

Only by 

the river is 

1 i f ^. and 

abode for 


all else is 


desert. The 

old railway 

still exists, 


the wind- 
ing Nile 

from Haifa 

to Sarras, 

Sem neh, 

Amara, to 

Kerma and 

the Third 

C ataract. 

But there 

is no train 

de luxe by 

this old line, and no provision for comforts 

by the way, and jt ends abruptly 250 miles 
from Abu Hamed, so 
that it is practically 
useless for travellers. 
This debars us from 
visiting the ruins of 
the temples of 
Semneh, Kubban, Se- 
dinga, Soleb, and the 
Island of Argo, with 
its two overthrown 
statues of Sebekhotep 
III. of the Thirteenth 
Dynasty, who ruled 
all the land from 
here to the Mediter- 
ranean, 2400 B.C. 
There are many ruins 
of temples and pyra- 
mids at Dongola, 
Napata, Meroe, Gebel- 
Barkal, etc. 

There are five or 
six separate districts 
along the Nile which 
abound in- ruins of 
many cities, with more 
than two hundred 
pyramids, before we 
reach the Fourth 
Cataract. This was 
the seat of the pow^er- 
ful rule of Ethiopian 

IW. Crooke. 



princes who gave several kings to Egypt 
about 800 B.C. Now the ruins can only be 
visited by organised parties, . with camels, 
tents, and guides. 

Our Khartoum Express does not lose any 
time. We only wait a few minutes at Berber, 
and then off again at full speed. This was 
once a fine town, now it is mainly heaps of 
ruined brick hovels. The natives hereabouts 
are of the Jaalin tribe, a tall, intelligent race. 


who have always been loyal to us. It was 
decided to arm them during the recent war, 
as they were anxious to take action against 
the Dervishes and help us in every way. 
So 5,000 stand of arms were sent, but never 
reached our alhes. AbduUahi, one of the 
Khalifa's emirs^ had the unfortunate Jaalin 
surrounded, every man, woman, and child 
in this district being put to death. Acts 
of cruelty like this were perpetrated on all 

natives who refused to join the Dervish 
hoi'des. No wonder the land is depopuLtjd. 
A short stay is made at Berber. The 
country is more hilly, and as we keep to the 
Nile valley, there is variety and some culti- 
vation along the banks, and now and then 
palm groves and ruins of villages. The land 
is covered with scrub, and abounds with 
gazelle, a small species of deer, and other 
game. Some hours beyond Berber we reach 
the valley of the 
Atbara, the first con- 
tributory to the Nile 
for well-nigh 2,000 
miles. Here for a 
time the military 
railway ended, and 
Kitchener's con- 
quering army had 
to proceed on foot. 
The Atbara is now 
shrunk to a mere 
rivulet; in the rainy 
season of Abyssinia 
it fills all its width 
of banks. A long 
iron bridge spans 
the river-bed. This 
could not be made 
in England, as our 
engineers were on 
strike at the time, so 
Lord Kitchener had 
to order it from 
America. The water 
of the Atbara is 
clear and trans- 
parent, not like the 
muddy Nile. 

Just when we are 
wondering at the 
absence of inhabi- 
tants and the deso- 
lation of the coun- 
try, we perceive to 
the east of the line, 
about half a mile 
off, a crowd of ruins 
of temples and 
pyramids, closely packed together. Had the 
train but stopped, we could have walked to 
the ancient city of Meroe in a few minutes.'"' 
But this was denied us, and, in fact, the only 
way to visit this wonderful place is by camels 
and donkeys, with tents, from the next 

* Strabo describes this city and district as called 
Meroe and flourishing in his time (20 B.C.) But the 
real Meroe seems to apply to the ruins near the Fourth 



station, Sliendy. If the Sudanese Govern- 
ment want tourists to spend time and money 
in the country, they must provide a station 
at Meroe, and provide a proper rest-house or 
hotel. There is not even a village at the 
place, which must once have had thousands 
of inhabitants. There are more than a 
hundred pyramids, and if each 
contained, as in Egypt, a royal 
personage, who doubtless had 
many thousand subjects, how 
dense must have been the ancient 
population!'"' The pyramids are 
much more vertical than those 
of Egypt, and each one had a 
small temple or oratory attached 
to it. There are besides ruins of 
other temples, and nearly all are 
covered with inscriptions in a 
species of hieroglyph writing 
which we cannot as yet decipher. 
There are also many carved 
figures Avith religious symbols in 
Egyptian style, but of an inferior quality of 
art, evidently of later date. In one of these 
pyramids, an Italian traveller, Ferlini, dis- 
covered, in 1880, a hoard of gold and silver 
jewels and precious stones, of immense 

in London, and by his advice the entire lot 
was bought by the Berlin Museum, of which 
they are now among the chief treasures. 
Lepsius supposed them to be the personal 
jewellery of one of the great queens of 
Ethiopia, called Can dace. A queen of 
this name, who ruled in Ethiopia in the 


intrinsic and historic value. These were all 
offered to the British Museum, hut declined 
as being modern. Dr. Lepsius saw them 

* Dr. Budge, in his excellent " History of Egypt," 
tells of a curious practice which obtained in Meroe. 
The priests of Amen had great power, and whenever 
the}' tired of a king, sent him a command to terminate 
his existence. The kings generally obeyed, and had 
very short reigns. But at last a king arose who was 
determined to live as long as he could. He therefore 
cut the throats of many of the priests, and so changed 
the system. This king was Arq-Amen, who lived 
B.C. 220. The story is told by Diodorus, and it may 
account for the enormous number of royal pyramids. 


time of Augustus, is alluded to in the 
Acts, chap. viii. Her chancellor was on a 
visit to Jerusalem and was converted to 
Christianity by Philip. The whole of 
Ethiopia became Christian, possibly through 
this event. Certainly from the 
early times of Christianity until 
the persecutions of the Moham- 
medan invaders, Egypt, from 
the Mediterranean to the Equa- 
tor, was a Chi'istian land. 

Our train speeds on its way. 
We make a short stay at Shendy, 
the only station of stone on the 
line. Here MehemeL All's eldest 
son, Ismael, was burnt to death 
by the treachery of a native 
chief, in 1821. In revenge, his 
father had all the people mas- 
sacred and the town razed to 
the ground, and after this the 
unfortunate natives of the whole 
Sudan were held in bondage by 
the Egyptian viceroys. 
Night falls upon us again, and when 
we are sitting at breakfast next morning, 
the attendant says : " Khartoum in ten 
minutes, gentlemen," and we shortly after 
pull up on the banks of the Blue Nile. 

The bright, new city of the South lies 
before us, rising brilliantly out of the 
green banks, the new buildings towering over 
a line of fine palm and other trees. The 
transparent, sparkling azure river flows 
rapidly past, for the Blue Nile well deserves 
its name. A motley crowd of every density 



of tone, from pale yellow to deepest Nubian 
black, gathers around us, and we and our 
belongings are snuglj packed on a Govern- 
ment steam-launch and shipped off to the 
Grand Hotel, a mile down the river. 
We steam past the Palace, the Mudirieh, and 
snug villas each embosomed in trees. In one 
of these the genial Mudir (Governor), Colonel 
Stanton, resides. The hotel will be " grand " 
in time, no doubt ; just now it is a series of 
detached buildings scattered about a large 
garden ; however, they made me very com- 
fortable. The weather was lovely, and we 
had all our meals *in the open (January). 
The garden was full of all the fruits and 

Photographed in his home at Omdurman. 

vegetables we used, and was diligently tended 
by five women, said to be Dervish widows. 
They had very ugly faces, poor things, but 
beamed with happiness, for were they not 
earning two piastres a day, and with no lazy 
husbands to divide their profits ? 

Of course, the new Palace demanded our 
first visit. It was the first completed public 
building. It is hard to beheve that only 
four years ago the place was a tangle of 
undergrowth of foul weeds, clinging to the 
ruins of Gordon's Residency and veiling 
the site of his garden and rosery. Now the 
fair Palace rises over all this scene of Dervish 
villainy, a beautiful structure surrounded by 

tall, graceful date palms and fine, leafy trees 
of many species. For, by some strange for- 
getfulness, the Dervishes forgot to burn 
down or destroy the trees, and so to-day the 
graceful new Palace rears its white walls out 
of a mass of greenery such as we have not 
seen since we left Cairo, and the whole is, 
indeed, much more beautiful than anything 

The Sirdar of Egypt is also Governor 
of the Sudan, and this Palace is his official 
residence. Sir Reginald and Lady Wingate 
are most genial and hospitable, and almost 
every day I visited the Palace and its lovely 
garden. Entering from the river front, we 
pass double sentries (British and native) on 
each side. The tall Sudanese, black as jet, 
in his handsome pale blue and silver uniform, 
was a marked contrast to the kilted sergeant 
of our own Black Watch who kept guard 
beside him. Above, the Union Jack and the 
Egyptian flag, with its star and crescent, 
floated side by side. Entering as Lady 
Wingate's guests, we inscribe our names in 
her book and are conducted up the wide, 
easy stair. On the way, we pass the spot 
where poor Gordon was hacked to pieces by 
the fiendish foes he came to save. A granite 
slab records the tragedy. 

The garden-front of the Palace is quite 
open, pierced with lofty arches, disclosing 
beds of roses in full blossom (in January) 
and masses of drooping bouganvilleas and 
creepers with tropical bloom of every shade 
of richest hue. The garden is of great ex- 
tent, almost a park, and full of shady trees 
and rich greensward, with rills of running 
water sparkling everywhere from saMyehn at 
work night and day. When one is invited 
to lunch or dine at the Palace, nearly every 
officer of the company bears a distinguished 
name, and everyone had fought in the good 
fights which gave us the Sudan. Of course, 
the greatest of all. Lord Kitchener, was 
away settling our troubles in South Africa 
at the time of my visit. Although in the 
prime of life, all were prematurely grey ; 
campaigning under the equatorial skies ages 
a man greatly. Also often at the Palace 
were a number of young fellows just come 
out to learn their trade in this fine school 
of soldiery. 

The architecture of the public buildings 
of Khartoum is novel, effective, and practical. 
The Palace is the only one that aspires to 
elegance, and it is a light and airy structure 
of great beauty. The Gordon College is 
only half completed. Its style is very plain 
and massive, but has handsome arcades 



giving shelter from the sun and connecting 
the class-rooms. Almost all the buildings in 
Khartoum have been designed and carried 
out by the Eoyal Engineers, who happened 
to be quartered here at the time. The War 
Office, Post Office, 
Courts of Justice, 
are all far ad vanced . 
There is sign of 
preparation for 
building on many 
of the blocks and 
streets already laid 
out. The new city 
will cover several 
square miles of 
streets and open 
spaces, and abun- 
dant room is left 
for extension. Two 
banks are in full 
operation — the 
Bank of Egypt and 
National Bank. 
The hospitable 
Sudan Club is ex- 
cellent and situated 

in a garden of several acres. There is also 
a Soldiers' Club, a most efficient centre for 
the non-coms. The Zoological Gardens are 
beautiful, only wanting the beasts, which 
will be soon supplied from the game reserves. 
The Greek merchants are building fine ware- 
houses, gradually removing their depots from 
Omdurman. One does not see any British 
merchants' stores ; but they are generally the 
late comers, the Greeks are the pioneers. 

Outside Gordon's earthworks, which still 
encircle the city, there are a dozen native 
villages, each tribe preserving its primitive 

mode of life — the crafty Dinka, the loyal 
Jaalin, the fierce ShiUook, the truculent 
and cruel Baggara, living in contentment, 
unarmed, and undergoing the gradual process 
of civilisation. A study of their various 


Empty bottles as the media of exchange. 

dwellings is interesting. Some have huts of 
earth, others live in burrows underground or 
in well-built houses, some have tents or mere 
shelters of Dhurra canes. The cantonments 
are scrupulously clean — that first step to civi- 
lisation they have already learnt. Once a 
week they go, tribe by tribe, to the Nile for 
a wash. They seem very happy and enjoy 
visitors greatly, behaving modestly and with 
a quiet dignity. They never demand bale- 
sheesh — the word is unknown in the Sudan. 
All the villages are under control of their 
own headmen, and these are responsible to 
the native police (all black, but looking 




In order to remedy 

comely in their trim uniforms). The adults 
get constant employment in Khartoum, at 
good wages, returning to their families at 
night. In the rising metropolis thousands of 
Dervish " widows " do all the portering, 
sweeping, gardening, 
navvy work, such as 
mixing mortar and at- 
tending to masons ; for, 
strange to say, no 
Sudanese can lay a 
brick, there are no car- 
penters, no smiths, no 
craftsmen left ; the* op- 
pression of the slave- 
hunters and raids of 
the Dervishes drove all 
these industrial pursuits 
to destruction. The 
bricklayers and plas- 
terers, carpenters and 
painters, are all Italians, 
this state of the labour market, the Goi'don 
College will — at first, at least — be a sort 
of technical school. 
When I was there, I 
had a pleasant com- 
panion — Mr. Mather, 
M.P. for Rossendale, 
Manchester. He was 
so miiqh pleased with 
what he saw and heard 
of this project that 
he has informed the 
Sirdar of his intention 
to send . out a com- 
plete outfit for the 
mechanical section of 
the Gordon College. 
His offer has been 
accepted and, I under- 
stand, is to be with- 
out limit of cost. I 
trust this will encour- 
age others to take an 
interest in Lord Kit- 
chener's noble effort 
to advance the poor, 
neglected natives of 
this unfortunate land, 
which has been plunged in misery for 
thousands of years, and at last is to get its 
chance among nations under the protecting 
British flag. 

Omdurman is three miles off, on the 
White Nile. It is a decaying place, without 
a green leaf or tree, wide streets between 
mud walls — now clean but empty. When 
our troops entered it, it was reeking with 



Now in the Palace garden at Khartoum. 


Berlin Museum. 

filth and putrefying corpses of men and 
animals which had accumulated for years. 
The ruins of the Mahdi's tomb and the 
Khalifa's house are in the centre. Some 
streets of stores and shops still remain ; but 
most of -these will be 
removed to Khartoum, 
no doubt. Gum is the 
principal export, and, 
at seasons, ivory. I only 
saw gum — a mile of it 
spread out along the 
beach being deftly as- 
sorted by more Dei'vish 
widows, mostly with 
prematurely old faces, 
but looking happy. 

Khartoum is quite a 
new place — not a cen- 
tury old. There are no 
ancient buildings here, 
save one colossal figure in stone representing 
a sheep or lamb, in the Palace garden. 
Father Ohrwalder "''' has returned to his 
school, and told me 
about this figure. He 
said there are ruins 
of several Christian 
cities near, and that 
the lamb came from 
one of them and was 
preserved by Gordon 
for that reason. I 
made inquiries and 
found that there were 
traditions among the 
natives of a powerful 
Christian kingdom 
which existed for 
more than one thou- 
sand years, till extin- 
guished by Moslem 
persecution some cen- 
turies since. I have 
found historical allu- 
sion to this king- 
dom in various Arab 
writers of the twelfth 
century. There are 
still extensive remains 
of the ancient city of Soba, about twenty 
miles south of Khartoum, although quantities 

* Father Ohrwalder is greatly loved by all classes 
here. His wonderful escape was managed by Wingate 
when chief of the Intelligence Department, and subse- 
quently led to the flight of Slatin Pasha. It is not too 
much to say that the knowledge brought by these two 
prisoners led to the eventual destruction of the Dervish 

gower. And the credit of all this success is due to 
ir Reginald Wingate, 



of the stones and 
bricks were used for 
the building of Khar- 
toum about a century 
ago. But stones of 
several churches exist 
on which the em- 
blem of the Gross is 
still evident. Sixty 
miles north of Soba 
the extensive ruins 
of another city, now 
called Naga, are 
found, covering 
several miles. Some 
of the buildings are 
of Roman architec- 
ture and are said to 
have been Christian 
churches. Besides 
these are many remains of temples erected 
by the colonies of priests of Amen of Thebes, 
who fled there about 250 B.C. The remains 
of the tanks which supplied this place with 
water are still to be seen. All the antiquities 
of the Sudan are puzzling and unexplained. 


great African express 
from north to south 
will be as much by 
water as by land . The 
Nile must be kept 
open for steamboat 
traffic from Khar- 
toum to the Great 
Lakes ; no railway 
can be made by 
Fashoda. Fortu- 
nately, however, a 
treaty has been con- 
cluded with Menelek 
by which the railway 
can be made direct 
through Abyssinian 

Fashoda, a wretched, 

fever - stricken spot, 

would never have been heard of had it not 

been for the efforts of the French to block 

our passage to the Great Lakes by erecting a 



and now that 
we control the 
country it is 
our duty to 
preserve these 
ancient monu- 
ments and 
render their 
possible by the 
organisation of 
a Government 
Department of 
Antiquities for 
the new pro- 

Most people 
suppose that 
Khartoum will 
one day be a 
wayside station 
of the Cairo 
to Cape rail- 
way. But the 



Now in the Museum, Berlin, 

fort there. The 
handful of 
men they sent 
to oppose us, 
under Mar- 
chand, were on 
the verge of 
when they 
ran against our 
steamers busy 
at the work of 
cutting away 
the sudd to 
free the chan- 
nel. However, 
Lord K i t- 
chener treated 
the poor 
with great 
politeness and 
offered them 



free passages to Cairo. So ended the 
" affaire Fashoda^'' and our rights to the 
highway of the Nile are not Hkely to be 
challenged again. 

There is now a railway in British territory 
from the Great Lakes by Uganda to the 
Indian Ocean (800 miles). In a few years 
the Ehodesia lines will touch the Great 
Lakes from the south, and the Cairo to Cape 
express will then become a reality. 

Egypt and Nubia were once Christian — in 
fact, Africa was the first Christian colony. 
Its first bishop was the evangelist Mark. 
In Egypt, despite \he persecution of a 
thousand years, there are still 800,000 
Copts — Christian descendants of the ancient 
native Egyptians. All the rest are mainly 
Mohammedan intruders. Nubia, and as 
far as Soba (the ancient Sheba) on the Blue 
Nile, was entirely Christian before the advent 
of the Crescent. South of Haifa, Christianity 
has been utterly extinguished by persecution. 
Now, under the British flag, all are free to 
worship according to their own faith, as long 
as they observe the laws. Already several 
places of Christian worship exist in Khar- 
toum ; nearly every faith — Catholic, Greek 
Church, and Protestant — is represented. The 

Copts have come back after centuries of 
enforced absence. To show our even- 
handed justice, we are aiding the erection of 
a handsome Mosque for the Mohammedans. 

The English service is temporarily held in 
a large room in the Palace, but Lady Wingate 
has started a fund for building a public 
church in Khartoum. The chaplain is very 
popular, so much so that many of the natives 
would attend his services if there were a 
public church, for he can speak all their 

The singing is excellent, the choir being 
led and trained by Lady Wingate. After 
service everyone stands up and sings our 
National Anthem. This has been done every 
Sunday since the memorable day when Lord 
Kitchener had the funeral service of Gordon 
performed on the spot of his martyrdom. 

The results of the British rule in Egypt 
have not been confined to North Africa. 
The great soldier who brought the war in 
South Africa to an end, and the capable 
administrator who is successfully carrying 
on the work of pacification at the Cape, 
alike served their apprenticeship in Egypt, 
under Lord Cromer. 



By spencer LEIGH HUGHES. 

IT was half-past four on a fine Monday 
afternoon in the month of May, when 
Mr. Edgar Trundle, M.P., was stand- 
ing in the centre of the Members' Lobby 
in the House of Commons, engaged in the 
important business of trying to make up his 
mind what to do next. He had sat through 
questions, had slept half an hour in his 
place, had answered a few letters, and had 
promised the Whips of his party that he 
would dine in the House, so that he regarded 
the serious political duties of the day to be 
over. He had had his customary chat with 
one or two of the journalists whose presence 
adds to the gaiety of the Lobby, and now the 
hon. member felt that there was nothing for 
it but tea and tobacco in the smoke-room. 
Just as he was turning to go, one of the 
attendants — who spend many hours in vainly 
endeavouring to find members, who are as 
elusive and as mobile as the Pulex irritans, 
or common flea — handed him a telegram, 
saying : " I don't know if this is for you, sir, 
or for the other Mr. Trundle." 

" Let's have a look," said the member for 
the Gaytown Division, and glancing at the 
envelope, he saw that it was addressed : " E. 
Trundle, M.P., House of Commons, S.W." 

" You see, sir, the other member is Mr. 
E. Trundle also," observed the attendant. 

" That's so," replied the member easily, 
" and we have an understanding about things 
of this sort — the first one to whom the tele- 
gram is offered opens it ; so here goes." 

He tore it open, read the message twice, 
and then exclaimed : " It's all right, the 
message is for me." 

That message was conveyed in these 
words : — 

Propose to call on you at House about four 
Wednesday. Can you see me? Wire reply. 
Simpson, 8, Limpet Terrace, Scarborough. 

" So old Bob Simpson's sunning himself 
at Scarboi'ough, is he ? " muttered Mr. 
Edgar Trundle. " And he must be having a 
gaudy time, too, to forget that Wednesday 
next is Derby Day, and that therefore yours 
truly will not be within the precincts of the 
Palace at the time mentioned." He went to 

the post-office in the corner of the Lobby 
and wired in reply : — 

Simpson, 8, Limpet Terrace, Scarborough. 
Off to the Derby Wednesday. Call eii'ht 
Tuesday night Belgrave Club.^ How are the 
girls at Scarborough ? listen to the band ! 

Having paid one shilling and twopence 
for this message, couched in a style worthy 
of the member for Caytown, he strolled 
away to the smoke-room, humming a lively 
tune and " feeling good," as he was in the 
habit of putting it. 

The two hon. members, each of whom 
was Mr. E. Trundle, were unhke each other 
in everything except the name. Mr. Edgar 
Trundle was a joyous gentleman of thirty- 
seven, smart, well-dressed, and a bachelor. 
In describing him, men were apt to speak of 
him as " a bit of a caution," or *' a regular 
sportsman." His clothes never looked quite 
new and never more than a week old. In 
the choice of neckties he showed the most 
daring originality ; and while his moustache 
was always waxy, he himself was always 
genial. The other Mr. E. Trundle, whose 
first name was Ebenezer, was quite different 
from all this. He was tall, gaunt, and far 
beyond middle-age. He had a long, grey, 
straggling beard, though part of the chin 
was shaven ; he invariably wore spectacles, 
and gazed over rather than through them in 
a reproachful manner. In describing him, 
people generally called him "a worthy man." 
His clothes w^ere always black, and his 
enormously long frock-coat, which hung in 
melancholy folds around his lank figure, 
appeared to be as much part of him as his 
beard. In a word, the two E. Trundles 
formed the extremes of an antithesis. 

Within half-an-hour of its despatch the 
cheery telegram already mentioned reached 
its destination, No. 8, Limpet Terrace, Scar- 
borough. But the Simpson who opened it 
was not the Bob Simpson of whom Mr. Edgar 
Trundle was thinking when it was written. 
On the contrary, it was handed by a neat 
maidservant to theRev. Micah Simpson, who, 
having seated himself opposite Mrs. Simpson 
at the tea-table, and having "asked a 




blessing," was informing that excellent lady 
that he was afraid he would have to go to 
London on Wednesday to see their good 
friend Mr. Trundle about a local education 
scheme w^iich was soon to be discussed in 
the House. He picked up the telegram from 
the little tray, saying : "• Thank yon, Mary," 
and tlien, having adjusted his spectacles, he 
read the message, remarking : " No doubt 
this is Mr. Trundle's reply." 

For a moment or two he sat transfixed and 
speechless. Then he said in a tone of the 
utmost concern : " Dear, dear, dear me ! " 

" What is it, Micak ? " asked Mrs. Simpson 
anxiously. " I hope nothing has happened to 
Mr. Trundle ? " 

"It seems to me that something is going 
to happen to him, unless I intervene, and 
that right early," replied the good man. 
" Look at that ! " And he flung the offending 
message across the table. 

Then Mrs. Simpson, a nice, grey-haired, 
gentle old lady, had to adjust her glasses. 
She read the telegram and said : "I'm sur- 
prised that Ebenezer Trundle should write 
in such a way about the girls, and I don't 
know what he means about the band ; but 
if he is going to Derby, it may be on some 
good errand." 

" Not to Derby, my dear, but to the Derby ; 
a different thing, a very diff-e-rent thing 
indeed," retorted the reverend gentleman, in 
a sepulchral tone. " 'Tis a carnival of vice, 
a pandemonium of iniquity, and I feel I must 
journey to London forthwith — early to- 
morrow, that is — to seek him out and to 
peisuade him to pause ere it is too late." 
With that he scrutinised the telegram again 
and went on, half to himself and half to his 
wife : " Handed in in the House of Commons, 
too, I perceive. Tut, tut, tut ! I feared, 
when last Lsaw Ebenezer, that the snares of 
London — and they are many — were beginning 
to lead him astray, but I never supposed that 
I should live to receive from him a telegram 
openly avowing his intention of going to that 
abomination, the Derby, and asking me, the 
Rev. Micah Simpson, * How are the girls ? ' 
and addressing to me so futile an injunction 
as ' listen to the band ! ' He seems to 
glory in his shame. But I will go to this 
club of his and withstand him to his face." 

Dear old Mrs. Simpson said she would see 
to the reverend gentleman's best things being 
ready, and she trusted that Micah would take 
great care of himself. 

It was about half -past six o'clock the next 
evening when the Eev. Micah Simpson 
reached King's Cross, and he drove at once 

to a small hotel in one of the streets running 
dow^n from the Strand to the Embankment, 
where he had for years been in the habit of 
putting up on his occasional visits to town. 
When in London he was always very sus- 
picious, fearing that every other man was a 
swindler in posse or a would-be pickpocket. 
For in spite of a somewhat grim appearance 
and a precise formality in speech, Mr. 
Simpson was a simple man. And though 
suspicious on occasion, he was really kind- 
hearted, for it was merely his inexperience 
which led him to suspect his fellow-men 
when out of his usual quiet surroundings. 
Having secured his bedroom and meditated 
for a few minutes, he called a waiter. 

" Can you direct me to the Belgrave 
Club ? " he asked. 

" Belgrave Club, sir ? Yes. sir. Pall 
Mall, sir." 

" Is it — er— is it a reputable resort ?" 

" Beg pardon, sir," said the waiter, with 
his head on one side. 

" What I wish to know," explained Mr. 
Simpson, "is whether it is a club of good 

" Tip-top, one of the best," replied the 

" Ah ! " said Mr. Simpson ; " and now teU 
me what is a reasonable fare for a hansom 
cab from this place to the club in question. 
I have no wish to appear mean, but cabmen 
are on occasion apt to be extortionate." 

" Eighteenpence, sir, will see you through 
well. Shall I call you a cab ? " 

" If you please," replied Mr. Simpson, 
putting on his gloves. 

" 'Ansom hup ! " roared the waiter from 
the door, and a cab came clattering along. 
The reverend gentleman climbed carefully 
inside, the waiter shouted " Belgrave Club !" 
and as the hansom moved off, the driver 
and the waiter exchanged pantomimic signs, 
which consisted of a closing of the left eye, 
a lowering of the left corner of the mouth, 
and a chucking movement of the left thumb. 

At about seven o'clock on the same 
Tuesday evening, Mr Edgar Trundle began 
to bestir himself in the House, being anxious 
to pair with someone for the rest of that 
day and for the following day. It was one 
of his fixed rules that the eve of the Derby 
should not be desecrated by any attention to 
parliamentary duties, however slight that 
attention might be. He thought a snug 
little dinner with a friend or two at his club 
was a far more appropriate preparation, and 
while he was looking about for some man on 
the other side who wanted to get away, up 



came Mr. Ebenezer Trundle. He said, with 
a sad smile : " I presume, my dear sir, that 
you will be away as usual to-morrow, but I 
fear you have already paired. If not, will 
you pair with me ? " 

Mr. Edgar Trundle laughed and rephed : 
" I was just looking round for some chap on 
your side who would be going to the Derby. 
I'll pair with you with pleasure, though I 
don't suppose you will be among the gee-gees 
to-morrow. But the pair must begin from 
half-past seven to-night, and last over to- 

" That will suit me admirably, my dear 

' Don't suppose you will be among the gee-gees 

friend," replied Ebenezer, " as I want to be 
oflp at once, and a division to-night is not 
very likely. It is seldom that our tastes 
coincide so remarkably." 

" Not often, is it ? " remarked the cheery 
Edgar ; and away they went to book the 
" pair." 

That having been done, Mr. Edgar 
Trundle drove off to the Belgrave Club, 
feeling on very good terms with himself and 
with everyone else. On entering his club 
he remarked to the hall-porter : . " Look here, 
John, I may have a guest calling here about 

eight. His name's Simpson, and if he comes, 
send him up to the smoke-room, unless he 
comes after eight-thirty. After that I shall 
be in the dining-room. I shan't wait dinner 
for him, as I'm not sure whether he will 
turn up." 

"All right, sir," said the man, as he made a 
note or two in a big book ; and Mr. Trundle 
went away to dress, after which he made 
his way to the smoke-room. 

It was just ten minutes past eight when 
the Eev. Micah Simpson drove up. He 
gave the cabman two shillings, feeling that 
anything of the nature of a scene or an 
altercation on the doorstep of so select a 
club as the Belgrave would be unseemly and 
even distressing. Then walking into the 
brilliantly lighted entrance-hall, he said to 
the porter in his best style : " Ahem ! is Mr. 
E. Trundle, member of Parliament, within ? " 
" He is, sir," said the grave 
JUL functionary ; " and if your name 
I^^A. is Simpson, sir, he's expecting 

1^^ you." 

feil^ " My name is Simpson— the 
Rev. Micah Simpson," replied 
the reverend gentleman. 

" Here, boy ! " called the 
porter, " take this gentleman up 
to Mr. Trundle; you'll find 
him in the smoke-room." 

As the Rev. Micah was being 
shot up in the lift, he com- 
muned with himself, thinking of 
1W^^^ other days when Ebenezer did 
'* lift not disport himself amid such 

In another minute 
the boy through a large 
room, and at the further end the boy stopped 
before two gentlemen, saying to one of 
them : " A visitor, sir — Mr. Simpson." 

Mr. Edgar Trundle rose and said cour- 
teously : '^ Do you wish to see me ? " 

" No, no," replied the other, " there must 
be some mistake ; I have called to see Mr. 
E. Trundle, M.P., bv appointment." 

"Well, I am Mr. E. Trundle, M.P.," 
answered the puzzled member. " There's 
another M.P. of that name, but he is not 
likely to have made an appointment at this 
club, for he belongs to the other side. I'm 
the only Trundle in the club, member of 
Parliament or not." 

The Rev. Micah Simpson was fumbling in 
his pocket, saying : " I surely cannot have 
been mistaken," and then, producing a tele- 
gram, he added : " No, here it is —I am here 
in answer to that, which reached me in reply 
to a message sent by myself." 




Mr. Edgar Trundle looked at the telegram 
and then gazed helplessly round the room. 
In about two seconds he had pulled himself 

" Pray sit down, sir,'' he said very politely ; 
and then, sitting down himself, he said despe- 
rately : " This is a reglar knock-out ! " 

"I fail to follow you, my dear sir," remarked 
Micah blandly. 

" Did you send a wire to the House about 
calling there on Wednesday afternoon ? " 

" I did, sir, being anxious to meet my 

laugh. " I'd as soon expect to meet the Pope 
at Monte Carlo as your friend at Epsom." 

" You reheve me greatly," murmured 

" But look here, Mr. Simpson," continued 
Mr. Trundle, " I have unwittingly given you 
the trouble to come here, and you must, 
really give me the pleasure of your company 
at dinner. Nay, I will take no refusal." 

He had seen that the Rev. Micah, though 
not exactly one of his set, w^as a gentleman, 
and when the stranger observed that he was 

j vnnc - 

" * Strikes me you two are a bit festive for the beginning of a dinner.' 

esteemed friend, Mr. Ebenezer Trundle, the 
member for the Sadville Division." 

" Well, this beats everything. It's a 
record mix-up. Here's a wire meant for one 
Trundle which reaches the wrong Trundle, 
and the reply meant for one Simpson goes to 
another Simpson. And, by the way, it 
wasn't exactly the sort of answer you ex- 
pected, was it ? " 

" It was not," said Mr. Simpson with 
emphasis ; " indeed, it startled me not a little, 
for it led me to suppose that my good friend 
Ebenezer Trundle meant to visit the Derby 

"Not likely," replied the M.P., with a 

truly in need of some sustenance, though he 
had partaken of some luncheon at York, the 
hospitable member replied : " York ! Pooh ! 
that's hours ago. Here, waiter, take this 
gentleman's hat and gloves and umbrella. 
You must really join . me and my friend 
Mr. Pump at a little dinner. You may have 
heard of Mr. Pump. He is a well-known 
barrister — sitting over there; lean as a grey- 
hound, but you should see him eat ! " 

" I presume it is Mr. Pump, one of His 
Majesty's Counsel learned in the law," ob- 
served Mr. Simpson. " I have heard of him 
with the hearing of the ear, and have more 
than once seen his name in the public prints," 



"That's the chap," said Trundle, with a 
nod. " They call him Figtree Pump, because, 
though a man with his name obviously 
ought to have his chambers in Pump Court, 
he will have them in Figtree Court — 
obstinate as a mule. But come and be intro- 
duced, and then we'll dine." 

Five minutes later the three were seated 
at a little table in the dining-room, the lean, 
clean-shaven, cadaverous barrister making 
himself very agreeable to the Eev. Micah, 
while Mr. Trundle was "fixing up the 
dinner," as he put it. 

" By the way, about wine, Mr. Simpson," 
said his host, " I suppose you take a glass of 
wine with your dinner ? " 

" Well," replied the guest, with a gentle 
smile, " I cannot say that upon all occasions 
I abstain from such good things, though I 
advocate temperance, and that somewhat 

" So do I, all the time," said Trundle ; 
" and the first rule of temperance is not to 
mix 'em. So we'll stick to champagne all 
through " ; and then turning to the wine 
stewaL-J, he ordered "No. 102," adding: "A 
magnum, of course." 

Mr. Micah Simpson had been so much 
soothed by the discovery that his friend 
Ebenezer had not fallen, the soup and the 
fish were so excellent, and the champagne 
being perfect, he began to expand, and was 
chatting away quite gaily when a boy came 
up to Mr. Trundle, saying: "There's another 
Mr. Simpson coming up, sir," and in another 
minute Mr. Bob Simpson, a short, round, 
rosy-cheeked stockbroker liurried to the 
table, saying : " Hallo, Pump ! how are you ? 
And how are you, Trundle ? Thought as 
to-morrow's the Derby, I'd find you here." 

" Delighted ! " exclaimed Trundle. " Plenty 
of room for four — sit down. Let me intro- 
duce you — namesake of yours. Mr. Simpson 
—Mr. Simpson. Now I ought to explain. 

It's like this " And then, suddenly 

resting his head on his hands, he burst into 
immoderate and helpless laughter. At length 
he gasped : " Oh ! tell Bob all about it. 

" I can't," groaned the lean lawyer, whose 
ribs were rattling together. 

The Hev. Micah, who was beginning to 
feel more and more comfortable every 
minute, pushed up his glasses and beamed on 
the three, remarking : " The situation is by 
no means devoid of humour when regarded 
from one point of view, certainly." 

" You see," began Trundle again, " your 
name is Bob Simpson, and here is another 

Simpson whose front name I don't know ; 
but " 

" My name is Micah," said the reverend 
gentleman blandly. 

The wretched Trundle went off into fits 
again and then said penitently : " It's not 
the name I'm laughing at — wouldn't be so 
rude ; it's the whole affair." 

" I have known the name to be the 
occasion of merriment in my younger days," 
remarked the good man, with a smile. 

" Strikes me you two are a bib festive for 
the beginning of a dinner," grunted Bob, 
who was a man of few words. 

" Well, look here. Bob," said Mr. Pump, ^ 
K.O., putting the ends of his lean fingers 
together, " let's try to make the thing clear 
to you. This gentleman, the Rev. Micah 
Simpson, sends a wire to E. Trundle, House 
of Commons, suggesting an interview at the 
House to-morrow afternoon. The message, 
signed ' Simpson,' is handed to Edgar 
Trundle instead of to Ebenezer. Trundle 
here thinks it comes from you, so he wires 
back that on Wednesday he will be at the 
Derby, and then he adds some rot about the 
girls, and listen to the band, and that sort of 
thing. Such a message, which would have 
meant nothing from a scamp like Trundle 
here to an old reprobate like yourself, made 
our reverend friend nearly jump out of his 
skin when apparently coming from Ebenezer, 
so he has come up to rescue Ebenezer. 
That's the whole tale." 

" Jolly good," remarked Bob Simpson ; 
"so's this champagne. But why shouldn't 
Ebenezer Trundle, or anyone else^- go to 
the Derby ? " 

The Rev. Micah Simpson felt that his 
chance had come to assert himself and to do 
some good. He made another attempt to 
empty his glass, which had been quietly 
re-filled by the perfectly trained waiter 
directly the merest sip had been taken, and 
then he began : " I regard the Derby as a 
curse and an abomination. It encourages 
gambling and drinking, and theft, and, in- 
deed, almost every sort of vice. I w^ould 
away with it, had I the power. I have 
denounced it from my pulpit more than 
once. I have cried aloud and spared not." 

" Ever seen it ? " grunted Bob Simpson. 

" My dear sir," responded Micah with 
warmth, " I should be unworthy of my cloth 
and my calling if I were to visit such a 
collection of rascals and scoundrels." 

" Well," remarked Mr. Trundle, " there's 
plenty of wrong 'uns there —eh, Pump ? But 
there are some of the right sort, too. It 



strikes ine, sir, that jour views are a bit out 
of it, so to speak. I wish you'd let me take 
you there to-morrow, and then you'd see 
what's wiiat." 

"Sir," exclaimed the Rev. Micah, "the 
mere suggestion is repugnant to me." 

"Well, you know best, of course," said 
Trundle easily. 

" And what would my wife say ? " asked 
the good man. 

The keen-witted Pump detected in that 
question a certain dallying with the subject, 
so he resolved to see what he could do to 
further Trundle's proposal. 

" Mrs. Simpson need not know anything 
about it," he remarked, with a smile. " But 
let's talk it over in the smoke-room, Trundle." 

" By all means," assented the hon. member. 
" I suppose you smoke, sir ? " he added, to 
the Rev. Micah. 

" I am in the habit of enjoying a cigar in 
the seclusion of my study occasionally," was 
the reply. " My wife, good soul, can never 
get over her loathing of the fumes of 
tobacco, though I am sure that for my sake 
she would endure, if I may say so, any 

He uttered the last word in a subdued tone 
and looked at his host in an apologetic manner. 

" Oh ! don't mind me," said Mr. Trundle ; 
" but come along to the smoke-room." 

As they were passing from one room to 
the other, Mr. Pump took his host by the 
arm and whispered : " I'm going to win this 
case. We'll have him at the Derby to- 
morrow, as sure as my name is Figtree 

He lost no time, for directly they were all 
seated, with coffee, liqueurs, and cigars, and 
while the reverend gentleman was carefully 
blowing a blue cloud up to the ceiling, 
Mr. Pump began. " Now look here, Mr. 
Simpson. I'm not at all sure that you are 
wrong in denouncing the Derby. There is 
no doubt that it entails a good deal of 
misery, and even of crime ; but I'm certain of 
this — you could denounce the thing with far 
more effect if you had seen it. What you 
have actually seen is evidence ; what you 
have been told is not. I think it is your 
duty to sacrifice your feelings and look at 
the thing fair and square." 

" There is something in what you say," 
remarked Micah, sipping his coffee ; " but 
I fear my visit would be the occasion of 

" Suppose you think well of the Royal 
Family, eh ? " inquired Bob Simpson, with a 

" I yield to no man in my sentiments of 
loyalty and devotion totheTlirone," responded 
the ^ood man. 

"Well," said Bob, " the King and Queen, 
and lots of others, have often been there ; and 
Rosebery has won it, and the Duke of 
Devonshire would like to. He's a respect- 
able man, isn't he ? " 

" I regard the Duke as a worthy head of 
the great historic house of Cavendish," was 
the reply. 

" And don't you forget," shot in Mr. 
Trundle, " that Gladstone once said that the 
Derby was like the Athens athletic sports — 
Olympian games, or something of the sort, 
he called 'em. There's plenty of room on 
my drag to-morrow — room for two, in fact. 
Let's fix it up at once ; you come with me, 
and then you can curse the show more than 
ever, if you think fit." 

The Rev. Micah Simpson sat staring 
straight in front, and Mr. Pump, K.C., who 
was watching eagerly, warned Bob Simpson, 
by a motion of the hand, not to say anything, 
while he himself observed : " You see, in spite 
of all its imperfections, our racing system 
aims at improving the breed of our horses. 
Now, if we had had more and better horses 
in the earlier stages of the South African 
war, the operations would have been less 
prolonged and a vast amount of human 
suffering would have been spared." 

The Rev. Micah leaned back in his chair 
and thought for a moment ; and then, sitting 
up, suddenly remarked — 

" It is well to reduce human suffering 
when possible ; nor can there be anything 
sinful in seeing which of two horses can 
progress the more rapidly, unless they are 
ill-treated. I will, therefore, accept your 
invitation for to-morrow." 

Mr. Trundle was far too discreet to show 
any eager delight, so he merely remarked— 

" That's all right. You be here at eleven 
to-morrow. We'll drive down gently, have 
a bit of lunch, and then see what's going 

The party broke up soon after, and the 
reverend gentleman drove back to his hotel. 
He paid the cabman' one shilling only, and 
treated with sublime indifference the shout : 
" 'Ere, what d'ye call this ? And you from 
the Belgrive Club, too ! I wish I was 
a-drivin' a hearse and you was in it ! " 

And so it came to pass that when, in the 
forenoon of Derby Day, Mr. Edgar Trundle's 
coach left the Belgrave Club for Epsom, one 
of the occupants of the box-seat was the Rev. 
Micah Simpson. Mr. Pump and Mr. Bob 



Simpson he already knew, while it had been 
half hinted to the others that he was an 
influential constituent of their host, and was 
therefore to be treated with the greatest 


" ' Hurroo for the bishop ! ' " 

respect. The good man had but one mis- 
giving when starting. 

''I fear," he said, "that I ought to have 
stayed in town and visited the House, for 

my friend Ebenezer Trundle will probably 
be there." 

" Make your mind easy on that point," 
replied his host; "he's paired with me for 
the day, so he won't be there." 

" It would be strange if he also visited 
Epsom to-day," continued Micah. 

" Strange ! I should think it would," 
exclaimed Trundle, adding : " I wish I was 
as certain of what is going to win as I am 
that we shan't see Ebenezer Trundle there 

" Ah ! " mused Micah, half to himself, 
"but twenty-four hours ago I should have 
regarded my going to such a place as the 
acme of improbability." 

By the time that Clapham was passed, and 
they were in the full swing of the Derby 
traffic, the reverend gentleman's spirits had 
risen to a high pitch. He had a cigar in 
his mouth, his glasses on his nose, and he 
beamed upon his fellow-creatures. 

" There is something remarkably exhilar- 
ating in joining in a huge and joyous 
throng, all making for a common centre," he 
remarked, as he blew a whiif into the bright 

"All as jolly as sandboys," said Mr. Edgar 
Trundle, with a tricky flick of his whip. 

The crowd soon detected the happy cleric, 
and greeted him with cries of "Go it, 
parson ! " " Hurroo for the bishop ! " " The 
kerlection will now be mide ! " and other 
merry quips, all of w^iich he received in the 
greatest good humour. 

Mr. Pump's grin of delight was so flxed that 
one urchin shouted : " What ho, old Death's- 
head ! when was you dug up ? " Upon which 
Micah remarked suavely: "I imagine that 
last allusion was to our learned friend," and 
the K.C., nothing moved, said : " The court 
concurs." And so, without unusual adven- 
ture, the coach took up its place upon 
Epsom Downs. It was Mr. Edgar 
Trundle's habit to lunch early on such 
occasions, and then to see the sights 
before the real business of the day came 
on. Every member of the party was, 
therefore, feeling very comfortable when, 
after lunch, the stroll round commenced. 
Micah was, of course, more interested 
than anyone else, as everything was new 
to him, and he insisted on investigating 
the methods of the gentlemen who mani- 
pulate the thimbles and the pea. The 
Trundle party were making their way to one 
of these ingenious operators who had attracted 
a large crowd, when a victim, whose failure 
had raised a great shout of laughter, turned 




to come away and found himself face to 
fade with the Rev. Micah Simpson. It was 
Ebenezer Trundle, M.P., and none other ! 

" Micah ! " said one. 

" Ebenezer ! " said the other. 

" Oh ! but this is great ! this is gaudy ! Hold 
me up, Pump ! " shrieked Edgar Trundle. 
" The meeting of Wellington and Blucher 
after Waterloo isn't in it. This occasion 
cries aloud for another magnum — let's get 
back to the coach ! " 

" Let me be master of the ceremonies," 
said Pump. " The two Trundles will march 
together, followed ^j the two Simpsons ; for 
behold Ebenezer and Edgar have met to- 
gether, Micah and Bob have embraced each 

" Not quite," remarked Bob. " But let's 
get that magnum," and away they went to 
the coach. They soon had the magnum 
open, and then Mr. Edgar Trundle re- 
marked : *' Now, no attempted explanations. 
I can see through the whole thing. One 
of you has denounced this race from the 
pulpit, and the other from his place in the 
House, and you've both had the good sense 
to come and see if it is all your fancy has 
painted it. Let's have a sweep." 

" What is a sweep ? " inquired Micah. *' I 
connect the word with the periodic cleansing 
of chimneys." 

The meaning of the word was soon 
explained, and when Micah shrank from 
the suggestion, as in some way involving 
betting, the abandoned Pump put the matter 

" There is no betting at all," he said ; " it 
is really a subscription, and is in many 
respects of the nature of a collection." 

The result was that each member of the 
party put down his half-sovereign and drew 
a horse. Mr. Ebenezer Trundle drew 
Ornithology, and the Rev. Micah drew 
Heterodox, a name wiiich made him wag his 
head. Mr. Edgar Trundle remarked that 
Ornithology was a *' dead cert," while Hetero- 
dox " hadn't an earthly," and then he had 
to explain the meaning of the two phrases. 
Micah expressed his utter indifference, and 
was just explaining that he had come to 
study human nature, and did not care two 
straws about the horses, when a distant roar 
was heard. 

" They're off 1 " said Mr. Edgar Trundle. 

" No," continued Micah, " I care nought 
for " 

" Here they come ! " shouted someone. 

" Where ? where ? w^here ? " yelled the 
Rev. Micah, leaping up on the top of the 

coach and clapping the wrong end of a pair 
of held-glasses to his eyes. 

A little crowd of horses swept by amid 
yells and shouts and cheers of all sorts, 
through all of which din the thud of their 
hoofs on the course could be heard as they 
passed. Directly they were gone, the course, 
which had been kept so clear before, was 
covered with a great black mass of people, 
running, shouting, dancing, and half-mad. 

'* What are we to do now ? " said Micah. 

" Wait ! " replied Edgar Trundle, who 
was looking anxious— and they waited. 

In a very short time it was announced 
that Heterodox was first, and Ornithology, 
the favourite, was nowhere ! 

" From this we learn," said Micah, 
pocketing his winnings, " that in the realm 
of horse-racing, as in life, one may start 
with such prospects as to induce men to 
regard him as a ' dead cert,' and yet when 
prediction is tested by performance he may 
be beaten by one whose outlook was at first 
so gloomy that he was alleged to have ' no 
earthly.' " 

" Oh, yes," said Edgar Trundle quietly, 
" you'll learn all that, and a lot more, if you 
keep on at this game. I put a heap on 
Ornithology, and could have got any odds I 
liked about Heterodox." 

He was not the man to be depressed long, 
however, and the drive home was even more 
gay and lively than the drive out in the 
morning. They took Mr. Ebenezer Trundle 
on the coach, and during the drive he said 
to his reverend friend : " Micah, this visit 
might cause remark were it known in 

"It not only might, but it certainly 
would, were it known in Scarborough," 
retorted Micah. 

" We are in each other's hands," continued 

"We are," assented Micah, and they both 
agreed with Mr. Bob Simpson's sententious 
summing up : " Mum's the word, my boys." 

The Rev. Micah Simpson's explanation 
when he reached 8, Limpet Terrace, Scar- 
borough, on Thursday evening (having 
resisted Mr. Edgar Trundle's pressing in- 
vitation to stop for the Oaks), was simple 
and truthful. The offending telegram had 
not come from their friend Ebenezer, but 
from another Mr. Trundle, M.P. He had 
met that Mr. Trundle on the Tuesday night, 
and had seen Mr. Ebenezer Trundle on the 
Wednesday, and had had a conversation with 
him. His visit to town had been pleasant 
and not without profit (the allusion here was 

W ill > ii » < Wi ll II " I ' ii rr i' l l .l I I I! I l l I I ili l'l ■ lli Kl i ll ) i rt I r m i w ii I II I M ll 'il i rm Il l H l l ll lir I l mi i n mrii i ii I l im l rn il ni im ■ : u r . ■ 

'Oh! but this is i^reat ! this is gaudy! Hold nie up, Pump!' 


to the sweepstake), and lie was glad lie had South African war, the Rev. Micah, a pro- 
gone. And as he was pleased, good Mrs. minent supporter, thumped the platform so 
Simpson was pleased, too. But when Mr. energetically with his umbrella, and cheered 
Ebenezer Trundle made his next speech in so enthusiastically, as to startle the whole 
that neighbourhood, and enlarged upon the audience. The word " heterodox " makes 
necessity of the nation having a good supply him jump to this day, while Mr. Edgar 
of horses, and alluded to the suffering which Trundle, unlike other sportsmen, always 
would have been avoided had the supply alludes to that particular Derby as " the 
been better during the earlier stages of the parson's year." 


TTHERE were three gifts at eventide the West Wind brought to me, 
That I might choose for joy or use my fate from out the three: 
" Now here is gold," the West Wind saith, '* and fair it is to see ; 
Who chooseth gold hath power to hold; men serve him loyally." 

** A t>rince he is," the West Wind saith, '* I know the hidden mine ; 
Shali guide thee now o*er fire and snow to where the ingots shine?" 
*' Nay, then, who hath the yellow gold hath trouble at his back ; 
Whose needs are few, whose heart is true, what knoweth he of lack? 

"But here is Love," the West Wind saith, '* the light of life is he; 
Wilt bid him now to crown thy brow with myrtle greenery? 
He sets the pace that young feet dance and leads with lute and bow ; 
Take thou his hand and through the land with him till curfew go." 

"Nay, then, for he who seeketh Love finds but an empty nest; 
Love cometh still of his own will, unsought, and that is best." 
Then one spake out full loud and clear: "Now I am Work," said he; 
"And they who hold nor love nor gold have need of mine and me." 

"Wilt follow, follow, where I lead?" his voice rang free and strong; 
"Here's hope and cheer for all the year; here's balm for every wrong." 
"Yea, I am fain to follow thee; thou speakest like a king;" 
"Then shalt thou see, if true thou be, the other gifts I bring.'' 



ToRTEii (at junction where all change for Glasgow, 
Perth, and Paisley) : Are any of you here for 
Perth, Paisley, or Glasgow ? 

Train moves off. 

Old Lady : 1 \\ as for Glasgow myself, but I wasua 
going to tell yon speiring body. 


Vicar's Wife to Old Farmer : Have you 
seen the new tile-paving in the chancel ? 

Farmer : Oh, yes, ma'am. I suppose it's meant 
to imitate linoleum. 

Mistress to Eliza Jane ; I hope your father 
is better? 

Eliza Jane : He's still very bad, ma'am ; and it 
do come very dear, because the doctor won't let 
him have nothing but consecrated beef tea. 


An eminent novelist, who never answers letters 
except from old^and intimate friends, has recently 
received the following series of letters from one of 
his admirers. 

17, Woodbine Road, Kensal Rise, N.W. 
My Dear Sir, — Forgive my presumption in 
addressing you. I have just finished reading 
" 'I'he Story of Clarissa," the last and, in my 
opinion, the best book you have given to the 
world. I can no longer resist the desire to write 
and tell you how grateful I am for your unsur- 
passable works. I consider you easily the first 

writer of the age, if not of the last century. Of 
course, I cannot expect you to acknowledge this, 
but merely lay this tribute of respect and admira- 
tion at your feet, and beg to subscribe myself 
Your devoted and admiring disciple, 

Hershel Jones. 
17, Woodbine Road, Kensal Rise, N.W. 
(A week later.) 
My Dear Sir, — I did not expect, as I said, any 
answer. Of course, you have something better to 
do than write to humble admirers of your genius, 
who are personally unknown to you ; yet I confess 
I have opened my letters this week with more 
eagerness than usual, and regret you cannot spare 
aline of acknowledgment to my respectful homage. 
I have added *' Clarissa " to the shelf containing 
your complete works. It is delightful, but is not 
the sketch of the Colonel rather a caricature? 
Forgive me asking. 

Your devoted and admiring disciple, 

Hershel Jones. 
17, Woodbine Road, Kensal Rise, N.W. 
(A week later.) 
My Dear Sir,— I fear you take me for a mere 
vulgar autograph-hunter, and that fact explains 
your silence. I am far from that ; there are not 
lialf-a- dozen living men and women I would go to 




the trouble of writing to ask ior an 
autograph. I wrote merely to testify 
my admiration for you as a writer ; 
yet I confess a reply would be very 
deeply esteemed and treasured as my 
most valued possession. I have been 
dipping into "Clarissa" again, and 
think the slang the heroine uses 
diminishes her charm. Girls do talk 
slang nowadays, but not to the extent 
she does. I feel I must point this 

Your devoted admirer, 

Hershel Jones. 



17, Woodbine Road, 

Kensal Rise, N.W. 
{A tveek later.) 
Dear Sir, — I am much grieved 
you do not think my letters worth 
an answer, however curt. However, 
there is no more to be said. I shall 
not write again. But to think that 
the man who can draw so ffiscinating 

force of habit. 

Absented - minded Matinee Fre - 
QUENTER (from sheer force of habit) : 
Excuse me, madam, bnt would you 
mind taking off your hat — I can't see a 
wink f 



Urchin (to street conjurer, who has 
just finished his performance) : Say, 
gov'nor, I'll give yer a 'apenny hif 
yer'll change that there copper 
into a acid-drop ! 

a character as " Clarissa " should 
be so wanting in — I had nearly 
written " courtesy " ; but, after 
all, you are a genius, and one 
must therefore make allowances — 
" should be so forgetful " I write 
instead. I have been thinking 
the plot of *' Clarissa" is rather 
far-fetched — the Tomahawk, which 
cuts it up this week, I notice, says 
the same thing. Your plots, you 
must acknowledge, are the weakest 
part of 3^our novels. 

Yours very sincerely, 

Hershel Jones. 


17, Woodbine Road, 

Keusal Rise, N.W. 

{A K-eek later.) 

Dear Sir, --I have misjudged 

you. Your conduct in ignoring 

my letters is distinctly rude. I 


Artist: The last time T was down here, there were two windmills on the hill. What has become of the other? 
Hodge: Ye see, there ain't much wind about them 'ere parts now, so it was took down, so as to leave more 
wind for t'other. 




She : George, you don't lore me now as you used to 


The Bkute : Did you ever hear of a man running 

after a tram car after he has caught it? 

can hardly believe you could be so bad-mannered, 
and you have fallen greatly in my esteem. You 
are but an imitator of Meredith, and what a 
shadow of " Clara " is " Clarissa " ! 

Yours sincerely, 

Hershel Jones. 


17, Woodbine Road, Kensal Rise, N.W. 
{A week later.) 
Sir,— You still persist in not answering my 
letters. Such conduct is simply contemptible. 
Have you no common politeness, no manners ? I 
enclose two penny stamps to buy some. You 
want 'ern bad. Hershel Jokes. 


17, Woodbine Road, Kensal Rise, N.W. 
{A week later.) 
You Cad, — Don't think I want your dirty auto- 
graph. 1 don't. If you sent it, I'd send it back 
to you— it isn't worth keeping. But you shall 
answer this. Look here I've sold your books 
for fifteen shillings at a secondhand bookstall, and 
mean to give the money to some charity. You 

shall decide which. Answer, or by I'll 

come and smash your windows. I mean it. I 
breathe more freely now your rotten books are out 
of the house. 

Yours, without the smallest respect, 

Hershel Jokes. 

17, Woodbine Road, Kensal Rise, N.W. 
{A tveek later.) 

Contemptible Hound, — Yes, I spared your 
windows ; on second thoughts I feared upsetting 
your poor wife. Unhappy woman 1 isn't being 
married to you sufficient affliction for her, that I 
should add to her troubles? No ; I trust I am a 
gentleman. As for you, I won't sully my pen by 
sayhig what I think of you — I mean writing. 
I've sent the fifteen sliillings I got for your books 
(may they be a drug on every secondhand book- 
stall in the country !) to the Home for Decayed 
Authors. May you soon have to join them, is the 
hearty wish of Hershel Jones. 

P.S. — Don't presume to write to me, sir. I've 
done with you. 

Charles D. Leslie, 

The Honourable Miss Dowdy: When I got 
there, the maid actually thought I was a house- 
maid come to apply for the situation 1 

Miss Smart (consolingly) : Well, some very 
queer people do take housemaids' situations now- 

Humane Lady (seeing buckets with bran given 
to the 'bus horses) : Well, 1 do think they miglit 
at least take the trouble to give clean water to the 
])Oor horses ! 


Gertrude (to Harold, who has been repeatedly 
admonished for asking perplexing questions) : Why 
has the clock got another little hand, Harold ? 

Harold (after consideration) : Gertrude, that's one of 
the questions you're not to ask ? 

From a Paintijjg by Henry Ryland, R.I. 

By permission of Messrs. C. W. Faulkner & Co., Golden Lane, E.G. 


By the HON. W. E. MEEHAN,* 

Fish Goinmissioner of the Siate of Pennsylvania. 

FOR thousands of years men have 
navigated the ocean, but their know- 
ledge has stopped at its surface. It 
is only within the last half-century that 
scientific investigators have been busily 
at work sounding, dredging, fishing, and 
recording the wonderful history of a territory 
far greater than all the land on the surface of 
the globe. Of the great bodies of water on 
the surface of the earth, the Pacific has been 
most attractive to scientists, and it is the 

they have found a vast number of new 
dwellers in the deep — some of curious form 
and habits — and have given a new and more 
practical impetus to the commercial fisheries 
of the islands lately added to the territory of 
the United States. 

By the voyages of the U.S.S. Albatross, the 
ocean depths around the Hawaiian Islands 
have for the first time been studied with 
thoroughness ; new and vast deposits of 
curious manganese nodules, paving the floor 


Pacific that has called forth the extraordinary 
activity of the United States Fish Commission 
in prosecuting discoveries which have aroused 
universal interest, and added much to the 
reputation of the United States for scientific 
research, as well as for the practical fostering 
of industrial and commercial progress. 

The last two expeditions sent out by Fish 
Commissioner George M. Bowers, on the 
steamer Albatross, have made discoveries 
that reveal a great part of the floor of the 
Pacific almosfc as clearly as though human 
eyes had actually dwelt upon it. Moreover, 

* Copyright, 1903, by the Frank Leslie Publishing 
House, in the United States of America. 

July, 1903. 123 

of the ocean for thousands of miles, have 
been found at great depths and far from 
continental areas ; and enormous soundings 
have been made near Guam. 

The character of a great fishing trip 
strikingly fits the first expedition, which 
confined itself to the neighbourhood of the 
Hawaiian Islands. In this particular respect 
it was more successful than the second, which 
was a cruise among the South Sea Islands 
and over remote parts of the Pacific. With 
the first expedition, fishing and the Hawaiian 
commercial fisheries were the paramount 
objects ; with the second, fishing was an 

K 2 



A resolution of Congress, directing the 
United States Fish Commission to investigate 
the whole subject of the Hawaiian fisheries, 
was the cause for the first expedition. A 
desire on the part of Professor Alexander 
Agassiz, son of the famous naturalist, to 
make a more careful study of the corals and 
atolls of the South Pacific was the reason for 
the second. The Hawaiian investigations 
were under the charge of Dr. David Starr 

''^'^'y^^-fS^x-^''Sissif:>^'<^sx;ff^ .^.-~ 


Jordan, of Stanford University, Cal., and 
Dr. Barton W". Evermann, of the United 
States Fish Commission — both eminent 
American ichthyologists. Associated with 
them was a corps of competent assistants. 
Commander Jefferson F. Moser, U.S.N., 
captained the Albatross. 

Both parties w^ere out for business and 
scientific purposes only, and not for sport. 
In place of rod and reel, the Albatross carried 

a load to make the bones of Izaak Walton 
quiver — seines, gill-nets, trawls, dredges, 
hand-lines, trap-nets, even good silver money 
as a potent fish bait in the vicinity of the 
various inhabited islands. 

Of the various devices taken on the South 
Sea Island expedition, the Tanner-Sigsbee net 
was the most important. With it the bulk 
of the deep-sea fishing and dredging was done. 
Everything that came in its way was seized 
and held in its capacious maw. Nothing 
could be liberated until the fishermen willed 
it, unless the net itself were torn apart by 
the weight of the catch, and this did, indeed, 
happen several times w^hile it was being drawn 
over rough portions of the ocean bed. This 
net is an ingenious contrivance, so arranged 
that it can be operated at any depth with 
accuracy. When a desired sounding is 
reached, the mouth of the net opens, and 
remains open until ready to be hauled 

The Agassiz expedition sailed on August 
20th, 1900, from San Francisco, and the 
dredging and soundings began as soon as 
the line between that city and the Hawaiian 
Islands was passed. There were lines aboard 
for the sounding of vast depths ; and vast 
depths were sounded and new records made 
on the remarkable voyage. But frequently 
the nets were hauled along the surface, or 
100 fathoms below ; again at 300 fathoms ; 
and, seventy-five miles from the Island of 
Tongatabu, a haul was made with the beam 
trawl at the enormous depth of 4,540 fathoms. 

When towed at a depth of 100 fathoms, 
the nets seldom failed to capture masses of 
pelagic animals ; but at 300 fathoms there 
was often little or nothing found. Indeed, 
the results of the trip seemed to indicate 
that, at the greatest depths of the Pacific, 
there is little or no animal life which does 
not exist at shallower depths or near the 
surface. The greatest disappointment was 
experienced in the Paumotus. Concerning 
this section. Professor Agassiz says : " The 
poverty of pelagic life on the surface and 
down to 300 fathoms is remarkable. I do 
not think I have ever sailed over so extensive 
an area and observed so little surface life ; 
on calm days, under the most favourable 
conditions, nothing could be seen with the 
naked eye, and at night there was little or 
no phosphorescence. The same paucity of 
life seemed to extend to the deep-water fauna. 
All the hauls we made off the Islands, 
in from 600 to 1,000 fathoms, usually the 
most productive area of a sea-slope, brought 

The wire rope shown in the picture has extended to a depth of the ocean never before sounded. 



But all parts of the Pacific did not yield 
so poor a harvest. There were places where 
the net was never hauled without revealing 
quantities of curious examples of marine life, 
a number of them new to science. 

While neither the scientific world nor the 
public can be made acquainted for many 
months with the full results of the fishing, 
enough has been determined to indicate 
wonderful progress. For example, in the 
Hawaiian waters alone, ten per cent, of the 
fishes found were new to science ; and 
possibly nearly fiYQ per cent, of those 
dredged near the South Sea Islands, and 
in the depths far i\om continental areas, 
were of species previously unknown. 

The cruise of the Albatross, under Professor 
Agassiz, was scarcely less remarkable, judged 

of most of them are miniature reproductions 
of the bottom of the Pacific, except that 
they are covered with trees and other 
vegetation. There strange beings dwell — 
types that are curious and rapidly passing 
away. The summits of these great sub- 
terranean mountains, projecting above the 
present water surface, are the islands which 
dot the Pacific, from north of the coast of 
China nearly to the southern limit of South 

Some of the submerged valleys are several 
miles long, and here and there others of 
approximate length join them and extend, 
vein-like, to all points of the compass. 

While there are great mountains, long 
serpentine valleys, and huge basins or 
''deeps," the plateau areas are by far the 



as an exploring expedition, than it was as a 
fishing party. For days, weeks, and months, 
the party groped with great dredges, deep-sea 
lines, and other apparatus to determine the 
topography and character of the great floor 
of the Pacific. Every haul, every sounding 
added something to human knowledge. 

If the waters of the Pacific could be 
drained, there would be revealed a vast 
stretch of territory comprising enormous 
plateaus, great valleys for which no parallels 
exist on the land surface —lofty mountains, 
beside which the Himalaya and the Andes 
would look like hillocks, and tremendous 
hollows or basins, only to be compared with 
those on the face of the moon. 

It is a marvellous peculiarity of thousands 
of these huge mountains that the summits 

most extensive. Relatively speaking, the 
floor of the Pacific, as now at last revealed, 
on the plateau areas, is level. There are 
undulations and depressions, but the general 
area is about the same depth below the 

The soundings of the Albatross develop a 
mean depth of from 2,500 to 2,700 fathoms. 
In shoal spots there is a mean depth of 
from 2,300 to 2,400 fathoms. Deeper spots 
show from 2,800 to 2,900 fathoms. 

It is an interesting fact that riiany of the 
deeper portions of the plateau areas are in 
the neighbourhood of large groups of islands, 
and not necessarily far from land or close to 
islands of coral formation . The great deeps, 
or basins, three thousand fathoms or over, 
are less than two dozen in number, and all 



are of comparativelj small extent, save five. 
One reaches from about twenty-five degrees 
north latitude to above fifty degrees. 
Another extends from below thirty degrees 
north-eastwardly, in the shape of a huge 
shoe, to nearly forty degrees north. Some 
are long and narrow, while others are nearly 
circular in form. The tw^o most important 





basins are the Moser, near the Island of 
Gruam, and the Tonga-Kermadec Deep, near 
Tongatabu. Each is over 4,000 fathoms, 
and in no point less than 3,000 fathoms. 

The new soundings correct many former 
inaccuracies. Old charts indicated many 
basins, deeps, and ridges which either do 
not exist or form parts of the other basins, 

ridges, or deeps. While it still appears that 
the greater part of the floor of the Pacific is 
relatively of a uniform depth, the whole of it 
is more broken than was generally supposed. 

The soundings made in the Moser Basin 
and in the Tonga-Kermadec Deep were accom- 
panied by great excitement. It was on a 
beautiful, clear day, the 20th of February, 
that the Albatross approached within a little 
more than one hundred miles of Guam. 
The vessel lay to, and preparations were 
made for one of the frequent soundings. A 
great depression was known to exist in that 
locality, and there was a general air ^ of 
expectation and a deep silence as prepara- 
tions were made to test the depth. At 
length the silence was broken by a brief 
order and the tinkling of a bell. Slowly the 
machinery of the engine commenced to work, 
and slowly the tough wire rope began to sink 
beneath the water. Foot by foot, fathom 
by fathom, it slid from the ship. One 
thousand, two thousand, three, and then 
four thousand fathoms disappeared. The 
record was passed. Five miles of rope ! 

Officers and men watched the wire with 
breathless interest. It was an anxious 
moment, for the strain caused by the 
immense length and weight of the wire 
rope on the machinery was tremendous. 
Many feared lest the rope itself could not 
stand the tension. But everything held 
firm; and at length, when the mark recorded 
4,818 fathoms, or 28,878 feet— practically 
the height of Mount Everest — bottom was 
touched. A wonderful record of 4,475 
fathoms, made in the same vicinity a few 
months before by the steamer Nero, was 
broken. It was an added triumph for 
American geographical science. 

It was then that Professor Agassiz, fol- 
lowing a precedent established by other ocean 
explorers, named tiie spot the Moser Basin, 




ill honour of Commander Jefferson Moser, 
captain of the Albatross, Other soundings, 
made in the same basin, proved it to be of 
large extent. The dredge showed the bottom 
of this mighty deep to be covered with 
manganese, pumice, and volcanic particles 
and discs of organic life believed to be 

The soundings in the Tonga-Kermadec 
Deep were scarcely less exciting. Before 
beginning operations, the gear was carefully 
inspected and strengthened by Captain 

THK manganesp: discs and nodules, ranging in 




Moser ; and then, with considerable anxiety, 
5,000 fathoms of wire were laid out for the 
haul. Fortunately, everything held, and 
bottom was found at 4,540 fathoms. To 
the surprise of those on board, the bag of 
the beam trawl was filled with large 
fragments of silicious sponge, of a species 
before only found at depths of less than 
500 fathoms. 

The water at great depths was found to 
be extremely cold. At the bottom of the 
Moser Basin it was 35° Fahr., only three 
degrees above freezing, and in the majority 

of places below 3,000 fathoms the tempera- 
ture ranged from thirty-five to thirty-nine 

If a bird's-eye view could only be had of 
the floor of the Pacific, it would be found that 
the greater part is formed of red clay. The 
remainder, a scientist would tell you, is 
composed of extensive fields of globigerina 
and white radiolarian ooze, with smaller 
spots of pteropod, diatom, terrigenous, and 
coral ooze. Probably, if the various forms 
of ooze were scraped away, there would 
remain a uniform covering of red clay, 
because they are merely the remains of 
countless millions of marine organisms, the 
accumulations of numberless years. 

It is impossible to conceive the vastness 
of protozoan life, as the lowest and simplest 
type of living organisms is called which 
forms great deposits on the floor of the 
Pacific and elsewhere, or to dream of the 
countless period of years since they first 
came into existence. In past ages protozoan 
life was more abundant than now. The 
radiolarian life, as the learned name the 
valvular mollusc, which cling to the rocky 
bottom of the ocean, formed the chalk cliffs 
of England and large limestone deposits in 
different parts of the world. 

The greater number of species of radio- 
larians and globigerinaceae, another low form 
of marine life, dwell at the bottom of the 
sea. The Albatross found them at a 
depth of nearly 3,000 fathoms. Yet 
other species live near the surface, and in 
such swarms that their dead bodies, when 
they reach the bottom, often completely 
overwhelm their cousins that dwell below. 
The surface radiolarians are easily distin- 
guished by their more delicate skeletons ; 
and when alive, they seldom sink beyond 
200 fathoms, while the more massive 
skeleton types remain below the 2,000 
fathom mark. Mixed with the clays and 
ooze are the fossil and modern remains of 
sharks' teeth and skeletons of other large 
forms of marine fauna. 

Yet all the marvels and all the interesting 
incidents of the South Sea Islands expedi- 
tion sink into insignificance before the 
stupendous mineral finds on the floor of 
the Pacific. In making soundings and 
dredgings on the red clay, enormous deposits 
of manganese were discovered at depths of 
2,000 fathoms and over. Former explor- 
ing expeditions found isolated deposits in 
the Pacific, but the Albatross demonstrated 
that vast areas of the red clay bottom are 
thickly studded with the valuable metal. 

" ^>^f '^3j "'^i' . '-ii^vC - 

1. THE SQUIRREL-FISH {Holocentrus ascensionis), which chatters under water like a squirrel with a 




This intensely hard mineral occurs in the 
form of nodules and discs, the first from five 
grains in weight to specimens the size of 
a cannon-ball, and the second from the 
dimensions of a sixpenny piece to that of . a 
good-sized dinner-plate. The surface of all 
specimens found is thickly indented and of 
a dirty brown colour. 

On land surfaces, manganese is almost 
invariably found in small quantities, asso- 
ciated with iron and in certain forms of 
vegetable life, and never in a native form 
excepting in meteoric iron. Only about 
£20,000 worth can be produced annually, 
and there is a ready sale for every ton put 
upon the market. With this explanation, 
the vastness of the mineral find of the 
Albatross becomes the more important. 
The dredsring's show that there is a be- 

hundred and forty-nine hauls brought 
manganese in greater or less quantity. 

Apparently the deposits extend from the 
vicinity of Guam almost to the shore of 
Tahiti. From the dredgings of the Albatross, 
Professor Agassiz is inclined to think that 
this peculiar manganese nodule bottom 
characterises a great portion of the Central 
Pacific, where it cannot be affected by the 
deposits of organic ooze. He also beheves 
there are vast deposits in other spots on the 
red clay bottoms. 

When the nodules or discs are broken, 
the manganese is often found, thickly veined, 
in solid mass below the surface, and seem- 
ingly pure. Above, the metal has the appear- 
ance of being oxidised. It is a strange fact 
also that, in every instance, whether in disc 
or nodule form, the manganese is deposited 

THE LION-FISH (Scorpoena volitmis) is as dangerous as it is hideous, for the spines 


This is the only species of lion-fish which came to the net during the expedition. 

wildering wealth of the valuable metal on 
the floor of the deeper parts of the Pacific, 
buried far below the possibilities of commerce. 
Thousands of square miles of the red clay 
bottom are literally paved with nodules and 
discs of nearly pure manganese. In one 
spot close upon half a ton was hauled to the 
deck of the Albatross; in another, over 
800 lb. of nodules and discs were obtained. 
Many of the latter were from three to 
four inches thick, and a number were nearly 
six inches through. 

A day or two later the trawl was lifted 
from 3,000 fathoms. It was filled with 
manganese nodules, from four to six inches 
in diameter. Again, a few hundred miles 
beyond, when the trawl was brought to the 
surface, the net was found to be badly torn 
by the load of heavy metal it had gathered 
from the bottom. One-fifth of the two 

around some other substance. Sometimes it 
is grey clay, sometimes a volcanic ash, and 
occasionally felspar, quartz, and other rock. 

How the nodules and discs came where 
they were, and how they came to be formed, 
is a curious problem for scientists to solve. 
And there is an added interest owing to the 
basic material around which the mineral has 
collected. None of it belongs naturally to 
the sea ; yet all is found at great depths, and 
often a thousand miles or more from the 
nearest land. It is assumed that it could 
not have been transported thither by any 
agency of the present age, even were it 
possible for the manganese to collect in such 
a short space of time. A possible solution 
lies in the suggestion that the stones were 
carried thither by floating ice-masses, during 
the' great glacial epoch, or cast there by 
terrific eruptions of prehistoric volcanoes. 

mmiK.,i.i^,mi,'^mtmMmm i "terrra 








The waters of the tropics abound in fish 
of rich colouring and graceful outline. 

Among the new species discovered in 
Hawaiian waters were several which belong 
to what are popularly known as trigger- 
fishes. The type which bears this name is 
shaped like a double equilateral triangle, 
with the bases placed together. These 
fishes are nearly all conspicuous for rich and 
daring colours. A peculiarity of the genera 
is a long, spine-like ray on the front of the 
forward dorsal fin, which cannot be dropped 
until the second ray is lowered, when it falls 
like the trigger of a gun — hence the name 
trigger -fish. All the previously known 
trigger-fishes of the Pacific are found in the 
Hawaiian markets, and one rejoices in the 
native name of Humuhumii'nukii-nuhu'a- 
puaa. This overtops the best effort of 
the scientist, and Balistapus rectangular is is 
his ineffective substitute. The Hawaiian 
word, translated, comprises, it is said, a full 
sentence, and is in effect a prayer, for the 
trigger-fish is one of the many sacred fishes 
of the natives. 

One of the new species of trigger-fishes 
discovered possesses a modified trigger-ray, 
but it has the positions of the gaudy colours 
reversed, making it if anything more 
grotesquely gorgeous. 

Several new squirrel-fishes were discovered, 
all of brilliant hue and thickly spined. The 
squirrel-fish, which, under the name of 
Uu, is also a sacred fish of the natives, 
addressed in prayer as Uu Icani po, is in 
some respects a remarkable inhabitant of the 
water. Nearly all the species are of a deep 

rose or crimson hue, with long, sharp spines 
projecting from many parts of the body. 
Some are as nearly covered as a porcupine ; 
and as the spines are of a bony substance, 
the fish must be warily handled. The name 
is given on account of a peculiar sound it 
makes under water, resembling a squirrel's 
chatter. Notwithstanding the spines, the 
sqnirrel-fish is marketable. The new species 
discovered will be better appreciated, because 
they possess a smaller number of the sharp 
and painfully objectionable spines. 

Many of the new species were graceful in 
outline, harmonious in colouring, and valuable 
as food fishes. Conspicuous among them 
was the new amber fish which is now 
awaiting a specific name from Dr. Jordan. 
It bears some resemblance in outlines to the 
Spanish mackerel, but does not belong to 
the same family. Four or five new species 
of groupers, very valuable for food purposes, 
were added to the list by the scientific fisher- 
men. There are few genera more beautiful 
than the family to which has been given the 
scientific name of Epinephelm. Shaped like 
a black bass, they are all harmoniously 
coloured in subdued tints, and possess firm, 
flaky flesh, that renders them very desirable 
for the table. 

All the Hawaiians unite in declaring the 
native Oopuhue to be deadly to anyone 
who eats its flesh. Scientific men know the 
genera as Tetrodon, and plain, everyday 
people as the balloon-fish, a creature that 
has the power to inflate itself. One species 
is common on the Atlantic coast. The 
explorers found one new species of the 



curious and supposedly deadly fish in the 
waters of the Sandwich Islands, together 
with a new lion-fish, alleged by the West 
India Islanders to be dangerous to life. The 
lion -fish may be classed among the freak 
fishes. From its general outline it might be 
mistaken for a huge sun-fish ; but a glance 
at its head conveys the impression that 
someone has been practising thereon with a 
hatchet. The crown, back of the eyes, has 
a large piece cut out. Over the eyes them- 
selves, which are abnormally large, there is a 
long, ragged, skin-like projection standing 
erect ; and in front of the nose are several 
short, rhinoceros-like horns. The body is 
covered with an armature of rough spines 
which are poisonous. The gill covers are 
grotesquely marked, and, projecting from 
the cheek are two or three snake-like fangs. 

Several new fiying gurnards or bat-fish 
were found, and a span of new species of 
sea-horses. There were also new rat-fishes, a 
family with big eyes, thin bodies, and long, 
slender tails, and some quaint small species 
were taken from the Hawaiian waters. 

One day, while the net was being hauled 
over the surface near Honolulu, it captured 
a strange creature a pound or more in weight. 

which, if those on board had not been well 
balanced men, might have led them to think 
they had lost their reason. It was unlike 
anything they had ever seen before, and 
there was at once a w-arm debate whether 
the creature was a mollusc or a fish. The 
adherents of the latter theory finally won 
their point, and it w^as christened a fish. 
The creature is lobster-like in form, with 
protruding eyes, or eyes placed on a stem 
like the stalk- eyed crustaceans, to which 
the lobster, the crab, and some other forms 
belong. Taken to Honolulu, the natives 
expressed no surprise, but pronounced it an 
Ouanauna Aelea, whatever that may mean, 
and they said it was good to eat. It 
was, therefore, known to the natives, but 
was a stranger to science. It is, in fact, 
more than a new species. It is a new genus, 
a new family, and perhaps a new tribe. So 
far as is known, it is the only species of a 
strange type. It is unique in the ichthyo- 
logical w^orld, and was the only specimen 
secured — an aristocrat among fishes ! By 
its capture the work of the scientists was 
well rounded out, and additional lustre given 
the expeditions that had been groping over 
the mysterious ocean floor. 

Jn the background is a huge barrier guarding the land the animal world has won for ever from the encroachments of the sea. 

If l^;' ;■•:.•! --'m^|;P 

From the Picture by Bertha Newcombe. 



XT was a nasty night, with a drizzHng rain 
that was nearly as thick as a fog— a 
rain that obscured the signals and left 
the rails so slippery that a quick stop was 
almost impossible — yet just the sort of night 
that might make a quick stop imperative if 
disaster were to be averted. 

Red - headed Jimmy Callahan, station- 
master, telegrapher, ticket-agent, and man- 
of -all-work in the lone shanty known on the 
railway map as Hitchen's Siding, ignored by 
all other maps, stood beside the telegraph- 
instrument wondering whether the rain had 
affected the efficiency of the wires, or whether 
the train despatcher had gone crazy. Here 
was Number Sixteen, the freight from the 
west, coming in, and there were no orders for 
her. Number Three, known to the outside 
world as the " Pacific Express," the fastest 
train on the road, was already forty minutes 
overdue, tearing Avestward through the night 
somewhere, and Jimmy did not know where. 
All he knew was that she was trying to make 
up lost time as well as the greasy metals would 
allow, and here he stood without orders ! 

Once more he seized the key, and calling 
the despatcher's office in Warmington, once 
more demanded : "What orders for Sixteen ? " 
Then he went outside, and on his own 
initiative kicked away the iron clutch that 
released the distant semaphore. The red star 
of danger glimmered through the drizzle to 
the east, which might hold the express if she 
saw it in time. 

Number Sixteen had drawn up to the plat- 
form, and her conductor came forward, 
Jimmy running to meet him, shouting as 
he ran — 

" Sidetrack your train, Flynn ! Sidetrack 
her on the jump ! " 

" Where's my orders ? " asked the con- 

" There's no orders. / order you. Get 
her off the main line at once." 

" Your orders ! Well, for cold cheek " 

Jimmy lost none of the precious moments 
in argument, but, turning from the angry 
conductor, yelled to the engineer — 

* Copyright, 1903, by the Curtis Publishing Company, 
in the United States of America. 

" Whistle for the switch, and kick her 
back on to the siding. Number Three may 
be into you any moment." 

No youth in Jimmy's position has a right 
to give a command to an engineer over the 
head of a conductor, neither should his orders 
to the conductor be verbal — they must be 
documentary. Jimmy was shattering fixed 
rules of the road, and he knew it. 

The conductor of a perishable-goods train 
thinks himself nearly as important as if he 
ran an express, so Flynn was rightly indignant 
at this sudden assumption of unauthorised 
command by a no-account youth at a no- 
account station. But a conductor is usually 
in a comparatively safe place, while the driver 
of an engine has to take the brunt of a 
head-on collision ; so the grimy Morton at 
the throttle did not stand on etiquette, but 
blew the whistle for an open switch and 
backed his train into the siding. Callahan 
watched the switch light turn to safety again, 
heaved a sigh of relief, then put his stalwart 
arms to the lever and slowly pulled off the 
red light to the east, and left the main line 
clear for the through express. 

" What's all this sweat about ? " cried 
Flynn. " Where's Number Three ? " 

" I don't know," replied Callahan quietly. 

" You don't know ? Well, I'm blessed ! 
ril tell you one thing, my red -headed 
youngster. If Number Three has lost more 
time, and I'm ordered on to the next siding, 
you'll lose your job." 

" I know it," replied Callahan quietly. 

Jimmy turned in from the platform to 
the telegraph-room, and Flynn followed him. 
As they advanced, the instrument began a 
wild rataplan, and Callahan paused, raising 
his hand for silence. Even one like Flynn, 
who did not understand its language, felt 
that the machine was making a frantic, 
agonised appeal. 

" Listen to that ! " cried Callahan, a note 
of triumph in his voice. 

" What's it saying ? " whispered the con- 
ductor, awed in spite of himself. 

" ' Sidetrack Sixteen ! Sidetrack Sixteen ! 
In Heaven's name sidetrack Sixteen !' There's 
your orders at last, Flynn. It's lucky you 
didn't wait for them." 




The final words were obliterated by a roar 
as of a descending avalanche, and the express 
tore past, ripping the night and the silence, 
fifty miles an hour at the least, the long line 
of curtained windows in the sleeping-cars 
shimmering in the station lights like a dimly 
seen wavering biograph picture — there and 
away while you drew your breath. In the 
stillness that followed, the brass instrument 
kept up its useless, idiotic chatter. A heavy 
step sounded on the platform, and the 
engineer appeared at the door, his face 
ghastly in its pallor, the smudges on it 
giving a heightening effect of contrast. 

" Jove, Flynn 1 "* he gasped, " that- was a 
close call." 

The conductor nodded, and each man 
strode forward as if impelled by a single 
impulse and grasped a hand of the youngster. 
Callahan laughed nervously, saying — 

"They're pretty anxious in the city. I 
must answer." 

Then he went to the instrument and sent 
the cheekiest message that had ever gone 
over the wires from a subordinate to a 


In the Train Despatcher's office at Warm- 
ington, one hundred and twenty miles to the 
east of Kitchen's Siding, the force was hard 
at work under the electric light. John 
Manson, division superintendent, strolled 
in, although it was long past his office hours ; 
but he was one of those indefatigable rail- 
road men loth to take his fingers off the 
pulse of the great organisation he controlled, 
and no emplofje of the road could be certain 
of any hour of the night or day when Manson 
might not be standing unexp jtedly beside 
him. As this silent man surveyed the busy 
room, listening to the click of the telegraphic 
sounders, which spoke to him as plainly as if 
human lips were uttering the language of 
the land, he was startled by a cry from 
Hammond, the train despatcher. Hammond 
sprang like a madman to the sender, and the 
key, at lightning speed, rattled forth — 
" Sidetrack Sixteen ! Sidetrack Sixteen ! " 

Instinctively the division superintendent 
knew what had happened. To the most 
accurate of men, faithful and exact through 
years of service, may come an unaccountable 
momentary lapse of vigilance. The train 
despatcher had forgotten Number Sixteen ! 
Instantly the road spread itself out before 
the mind's eye of the superintendent. He 
knew every inch of it. The situation re- 
vealed itself to his mathematical brain as a 

well-known arrangement of men and pawns 
. would display to an expert what could or 
could not be done on the chess-board. He 
• knew where Number Three would lose 
further time on the up-grades, but now, alas ! 
it was on the level in the flat country, where 
every minute meant a mile. Nevertheless, 
there was one chance in a thousand that the 
express had not yet reached Hitchen's, and 
his quick mind showed him the right thing 
to be done. 

"Tell him to stop Number Three," he 
snapped forth. 

The despatcher obeyed. Where disaster is 
a matter of moments, there was little use in 
awaiting the slow movements of a heavy 
freight- train when the express, a demon of 
destruction, was swooping down on the 
scene. There was no answer to the frenzied 
appeal. Every man in the room was on his 
feet, and each held his breath as if the crash 
and the shrieks could penetrate across one 
hundred and twenty miles into that appalled 
office. Then the sounder began, leisurely 
and insolent. 

" Keep on your shirt ! I sidetracked 
Sixteen on my own, and set the signal 
against Three until Sixteen was in. Are 
you people crazy, or merely plain drunk ? " 

The tension snapped like an overstrained 
wire. One man went into shriek after 
shriek of laughter, another laid his head on 
his desk and sobbed. Hammond staggered 
into a chair, and an assistant held a glass 
of water to his ashen lips. The division 
superintendent stood like a statue, a deep 
frown marking his displeasure at the flippant 
message that had come in upon such a tragic 
crisis. But a thought of the safety of the 
trains cleared his brow. 

" The man at the siding is that red-headed 
Callahan, isn't he ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Send down a substitute to-morrow, and 
tell Callahan to report to me." 

" Yes, sir." 

And this is how Jimmy Callahan came to 
be John Hanson's right-hand helper in the 
division superintendent's office in the Grand 
Union Station of Warmington City. 

The Grand Union Station is a noble pile 
in red brick, rough and cut stone and terra- 
cotta, with a massive corner tower that holds 
aloft a great clock which gives the city 
standard time. The tower is the pride of 
Warmington — a pillar of red cloud by day 
and a pillar of fire by night, with the hours 
distinct a mile away. The tower may be 
taken as a monument to the power and* 



wealth of the Rockervelts, although in larger 
cities they had still more imposing archi- 
tecture to uphold their fame. 

The Maniteau Midland, which had its 
eastern terminus in this immense structure, 


" Callahan paused, raising his hand for silence." 

was merelj a link in the Rockervelt chain of 
admirably equipped railways ; but as the 
title, Union, implied, other roads, mostly 
bankrupt or branch lines of the Midland, 
hid running rights into the Grand Union 

For a country youth like Callahan to be 
transferred, at an enhanced salary, from a 
lone pine shanty on the prairie to this 
palatial edifice in the city, was like being 
translated bodily to heaven. Now lie had 
his chance, and that was all he asked of Fate. 
He delighted in railway work. The strident 
screech of the whistles, the harsh clanking 
of cars coming together, all the discordant 
sounds of the station-yard, were as orchestral 
music to him, "and he never tired of the 
symphony. He speedily became the 
most useful man about the place, 
and was from the first the most 
popular. He had a habit of 
i dashing here and there bare- 
headed, and to heat or cold 
was equally indifferent. The 
clerks called him *'The 
Brand," possibly from the 
phrase about the brand 
snatched from the burning, 
and the yard-men called him 
"The Torch." They said 
his red head stopped the 
Pacific Express, and had no 
idea how closely they were 
tread in ^j^ on the heels of 
truth. Jimmy took every- 
thing in good part, and 
always laughed loudest at the 
jokes on himself. There was 
not a trace of malice in the 
lad, and he was always ready 
with a cheery word or a 
helping hand. He seemed 
able to do anything, from 
running an engine to tapping 
a wire, and was willing in every 
emergency to work night and 
day, without a grumble, till he 
dropped from fatigue. Silent John 
Man son watched Jimmy's progress 
with unspoken approval, and loved 
him not the less that for all the lad's 
witty exuberance, not a word had ever 
passed his lips about that sinister mix-up at 
Hitchen's Siding. Those things are not to 
be spoken of, and even the general manager 
knew nothing of the crisis. The train 
despatcher had retired, nerve-broken, and 
the newspapers never guessed why. 

But there was one man who did not like 
Jimmy, and that was no less important a 
personage than the general manager himself. 
His huge room in the lower part of the 
cower was as sumptuously furnished as an 
eastern palace. T. Acton Blair, general 
manager of the Manateau Midland, was 




supposed to be related to the Kockervelt 
family, but this was perhaps a fallacy put 
forth to account for such a palpably in- 
competent man being placed in so responsible 
a position. He was a bald-headed, corpulent 
personage, pompous and ponderous, slow 
moving and slow^ speaking, saying perfectly 
obvious tilings in a deep, impressive voice, 
as if he were uttering the wisdom of the ages. 
His subordinate, John Manson, as everybody 
knew, was responsible for the efficiency of 
the road ; and when he wanted a project 
carried out, he always pretended it was Blair's 
original idea, so tl^e general manager got 
the credit if it was a success, and Manson 
shouldered the blame if it was not. 

One morning, as John Manson was about 
to leave the general manager's room, after 
the customary daily interview with his chief, 
the latter said — 

" By the way, Manson, who is that florid 
individual that rushes about these offices at 
all hours, as if he thought he was running 
the whole Kockervelt system ? " 

" I suspect that is James Callahan, one of 
my assistants, sir." 

" I don't like him', Manson ; he seems 

"I assure you, sir, he is a most capable 

" Yes, yes, I dare say ; but, as I have often 
told you, the success of our organisation is in 
method, not in haste." 

" Quite so, sir." 

" That person always gives me the idea 
that something is wrong — that a fire has 
broken out, or a man has been run over. I 
don't like it. His clothes are untidy and 
seem to have been made for someone else. 
His hair, in disarray, gets on one's nerves. 
He is uncouth, Manson, uncouth. I 
shouldn't hke Mr. Rockervelt to see that 
we have such an unkempt person on our 
clerical staff." 

" I'll speak to him, sir ; I admit his 
manner does not do him justice." 

When Manson next encountered Jimmy 
alone, he spoke with more than his usual 

"Callahan, I wish you would pay some 
attention to your clothes. Get a new busi- 
ness suit and take care of it. Eemember 
you are in the city of Warmington, and not 
at Kitchen's Siding." 

" Yes, sir," said Jimmy contritely, looking 
down with a new dismay at his grease- 
stained trousers. 

"And get your hair cut — short. I wish 
also you would abandon your habit of 

running all over the place without a 

" V\\ do it, sir." 

The hair-cut was not such an improvement 
as might have been expected, and even 
Manson's stern face almost relaxed into a 
smile as he saw the result of the barber's 
shears. Hitherto Jimmy's head had been a 
flame ; now^ it resembled an explosion. The 
shortened red bristles stood straight up like . 
a time-worn brush -broom. And in. spite of 
all determination on his part, Jimmy would 
forget his Iv.t. The catastrophe came with 
appalling suddenness. The Pacific Express 
he had saved, but himself he could not save. 

Tearing dowii the long corridor at break- 
jieck speed, Callahan turned a corner and 
ran bang into the imposing front of the 
general manager. That dignified potentate 
staggered back against the wall gasping, 
while his glossy silk hat rolled to the floor. 
Jimmy, brought up as suddenly as if he had 
collided with a haystack, groaned in terror, 
snatched the tall hat from the floor, brushed 
it, and handed it to the speechless magnate. 

"I'm very, z^^r^ sorry, sir," he ventured. 
But Mr. Acton Blair made no reply. Leaving 
the culprit standing there, he put on his hat 
and strode majestically to the division 
superintendent's room. 

"Manson!" he panted, dropping into a 
a chMr, " discharge that lunatic at once ! " 

The division superintendent was too 
straightforward a^man to pretend ignorance 
respecting the person alluded to. His face 
hardened into an expression of obstinacy 
that amazed his chief. 

" The Rockervelt system is deeply in- 
debted to Mr. Callahan-rra debt it can never 
repay. He saved Number Three last 
November from what would have been the 
most disastrous accident of the year." 

" Why was I never told of this ? " 

" For three reasons, sir. First, the fewer 
people that know of such escapes, the better ; 
second, Hammond', who was responsible, 
voluntarily resigned on plea of ill-health ; 
third, Hammond was your nephew." 

Mr. T. Acton Blair rose to his feet with 
that majesty of bulk which pertains to 
corpulent men. It was an action which 
usually overawed a subordinate. 

" I think you are making a mistake, sir, 
regarding our relative positions. I am 
general manager of the Manateau Midland, 
and as such have a right to be informed of 
every important event pertaining to the 

" Your definition of the situation is correct. 



Both vou and Mr. Rockervelt should have 
been told of the narrow escape of the 

There was a glitter as of steel in the keen 
eyes of the superintendent, while the inflated 
manner of the manager underwent a visible 
change, like a distended bladder pricked bj 
a pin. Mr. Blair knew well the danger to 
himself and his vaunted position, if the 
event under discussion came to the know- 
ledge of the great autocrat in New York, so 
he tried to give his back-down the air of a 
masterly retreat. 

" Well, well, Mr. Manson, I don't know 
but you were right. The less such things are 
talked of, the better. They have a habit of 
getting into the papers and undermining 
public confidence, which should be the 
endeavour of all of us to avoid. Yes, you 
did quite right, so we will let it go at that." 

" And how about Mr. Callahan ? " 

"After all, Manson, he is your department, 
and you may do as you please. I should 
rather see him go, but I don't insist upon it. 
Good afternoon, Mr. Manson." 

The great man took his departure ponder- 
ously, leaving Manson somewhat nonplussed. 
As soon as the door to the corridor closed 
behind Blair, the door to Manson's secre- 
tary's room, which had been ajar during this 
conversation, flew open, and the impetuous 
Callahan came rushing in. 

"Excuse me, Mr. Manson," he cried, 
" but I was waiting to see you, and I could 
not help hearing part of what you and Mr. 
Blair said. I did not intend to listen ; but if 
I had shut the door, it would have attracted 
attention, so I didn't know what to do. I 
suppose he told you we had a head-on 
collision, round a curve, with no signals cut 
except my hair ? " 

The young man tried to carry it off 
jauntily with a half - nervous laugh, but 
Manson's face was sober and unresponsive. 

" It was all my fault, and you had warned 
me before," continued Callahan breathlessly. 
" Now you stood up to the old man for me, 
and made him back water ; but I'm not 
going to have you get into trouble because 
of a yahoo like me. I've discharged Jimmy 
Callahan. I'm going in now to Mr. Blair, 
and I'll apologise and resign. I'll tell him 
you warned me to quit rushing round, and I 
didn't do it. I'm sorry I telescoped him, 
but not half so sorry as that I disappointed 

"Nonsense!" said Manson severely. "Go 
back to your desk, and let this rest for a day 
or two. I'll see the manager about it later 

on." He noticed the moisture in the 
younger man's eyes, and the quiver of his 
nether lip, so he spoke coldly. Emotion has 
no place in the railway business. 

" No, sir, I'd never feel comfortable again. 
There's lots of work waiting for me, and it 
won't have to wait long. I'm going for it 
as I went for Mr. Blair's waistcoat. But 
I want to tell you, Mr. Manson, that — that 
all the boys know you're a brick, who'll 
stand by them if they— if they do the square 

And as if his disaster had not been caused 
by his precipitance, Jimmy bolted headlong 
from the room before Manson could frame a 

The division superintendent put on his 
hat and left the room less huri'iedly than 
Jimmy had done. He made his way to that 
sumptuous edifice known as the University 
Club. The social organisation which it 
housed had long numbered Manson as a 
member, but he was a most infrequent 
visitor. He walked direct to the cosiest 
corner of the large reading-room, and there, 
in a luxurious arm-chair, found, as he had 
expected, the Hon. Dufiield Rogers, an aged 
gentleman with a grey beard on his chin 
and a humorous twinkle in his eye. Mr. 
Rogers was a millionaire over and over 
again, yet he was president of the poorest 
railway in the State, known as tlie Burdock 
Route, whose eastern terminus was in the 
Grand Union which Manson had just left. 
He occupied a largely ornamental position 
on the Burdock, as he did in the arm-chair 
of the club. He was surrounded by a dis- 
array of new^spapers on the floor, and allowed 
the one he was holding to fall on the pile as 
he looked up with a smile on seeing Manson 

" Hallo, Manson ! Is the Midland going 
to pay a dividend, that you've got an after- 
noon off ? " 

" What do you know about dividends ? " 
asked Manson, with a laugh. He seemed a 
much more jocular person in the club than 
in the railway-office, and he was not above 
giving a sly dig at the Burdock Route, which 
had never paid a dividend since it was 

" Oh ! I read about 'era in the papers," 
rephed the Hon. Duffield serenely. " How's 
that old stick-in-the-mud Blair ? I'm going 
to ask the committee to expel him. He has 
the cheek to swell around here, in imj 
presence, and pretend he knows something 
about railroading. I'd stand that from you, 
but not from T. Acton Blair. He forgets 



I'm president of a road, while he's only a 
general manager. I tell him I rank with 
Rockervelt, and not with mere G.M's." 

The old millionaire laughed so heartily at 
his own remarks that some of the habitues 
of the reading-room looked up sternly at the 
framed placard above the mantelshelf which 
displayed in large black letters the word 
" Silence." Manson drew up a chair beside 
the old man and said earnestly — 

" I came in to see you on business, Mr. 
Rogers. There is a young fellow in my 
office who will develop into one of the best 
railroad men of hi^ time. I want you to 
find a place for him on your line." 

" Oh ! we're not taking on any new men. 
Just the reverse. We laid off the general 
manager and about fifteen lesser officials a 
month ago, and we don't miss 'em in the 
least. I've been trying to resign for the 
past year, but they won't let me, because I 
don't ask any salary." 

" This man will be worth double his 
money anywhere you place him." 

" I am not saying anything against your 
man except that we don't want him. The 
Burdock's practically bankrupt — you know 

"Still, Callahan, the young fellow I'm 
speaking of, won't want much money, and he 
understands railroading down to the ground." 

"If he is so valuable, why are you so 
anxious to get rid of him ? " asked the wily 
president, with a smile. 

"I'm not. I'd rather part with all the 
rest of my staff than with Callahan : but Mr. 
Blair has taken a dislike to him, and " 

" Enough said," broke in the president of 
the Burdock. "That dislike, coupled with 
your owm preference, makes the best recom- 
mendation any man could ask. How much 
are you paying Callahan ? " 

" Ten dollars a week." 

The old man mused for a few moments, 
then chuckled aloud in great apparent 

" I'll give him fifteen," he said. " Will 
that satisfy him ? " 

" It will more than satisfy him." 

" But I pay the amount on one condition." 

" What is that, Mr. Rogers ? " 

" The condition is that he accepts and fills 
the position of general manager of the 
Burdock Route." 

" General manager ! " echoed Manson. 
" I'm talking seriously, Mr. Rogers." 

" So am I, Manson, so am I. And don't 
you see what a good bargain I'm driving ? 
You say Callahan is first class. All right ; 

I know^ you wouldn't vouch for him unless 
this was so. Yery well. I get a general 
manager for fifteen dollars a week ; cheapest 
in the country, and doubtless the best. I 
confess, however, my chief delight in offering 
him the position is the hope of seeing old 
Blair's face when he first meets in conference 
the youth he has dismissed, his equal in rank 
if not in salary. It will be a study in 

If the staid John Manson thought that 
Callahan's native modesty would prevent him 
accepting the management of the Burdock 
Route, he was much mistaken. When Man- 
son related quietly the result of his interview 
with the Hon. Duffield Rogers, the youth 
amazed him by leaping nearly to the ceiling 
and giving utterance to a whoop more like 
the war-cry of a Red Indian than the 
exclamation of a red -headed Irishman. 
Then he blushed the colour of his hair and 
apologised for his excitement, abashed by 
Manson's disapproving eyes. 

" I tell you what it is, Mr. Manson, I'll 
make the road-bed of the old Burdock as 
good as you've got the Midland, and I'll " 

" Tut, tut ! " said Manson in his most 
unenthusiastic tone ; " you can do nothing 
without money, and the Burdock's got none. 
Be thankful if you receive your fifteen a 
week with reasonable regularity. Now, here 
is a letter to the Hon. Duffield Rogers. 
Give it to the hall-porter at the club, and 
Mr. Rogers will invite you in. You will 
find the president a humorous man, and you 
have a touch of the same quality yourself ; 
but repress it and treat him with the greatest 
respect, for humorists get along better with 
dull people like myself than with each other. 
Although you are leaving the jurisdiction of 
Mr. Blair, do not forget what I told you 
about paying attention to your clothes. You 
will be meeting important men whom you 
may have to persuade, and it is better to face 
them well groomed ; a prepossessing appear- 
ance counts in business. Prepossession is 
nine points in the game. Here is the letter, 
so be off." The division superintendent 
rose and extended his hand. "And now, 
my boy, God bless you ! " 

The tone of the benediction sounded almost 
gruff, but there was a perceptible quaver 
underneath it, and after one firm clasp of 
the hand the division superintendent sat 
down at his desk with the resolute air of a 
man determined to get on with his work. 
As for Callahan, he could not trust his voice, 
either for thanks or farewell, so he left the 
room with impetuous abruptness, and would 



have forgotten his hat if he had not liap- 
pened to hold it in his hand. 

To the ordinary man the Bnrdock Eoute 
was a badly kept streak of defective rails, 
rough as a corduroy road. To Jimmy it 
was a glorious path to Paradise, an air line 



'That dignified potentate staggered back against the wall 

of tremendous possibilities. He went up 
and down its length, not in a private car, 
but on ordinary locals and freight trains. 
He became personally acquainted with every 
section foreman and with nearly every 
labourer between Warmington and Port- 
andit, the w^estern terminus. He found 
them, as a usual thing, sullen and inert ; 
he left them jolly and enthusiastic, almost 
believing in the future of the road. 

He proved an unerring judge of character, 
and the useless man was laid off, while the 
competent were encouraged and promoted. 
He could handle a shovel with the best of 
tliem, or drive in a spike without missing 
a l)lo\v. In a year he had the Burdock 
Route as level as a billiard- 
table without extra expendi- 
ture of money, and travellers 
were beginning to note the 
improvement, so that receipts 
increased. He induced the 
Pullman Company to put an 
up-to-date sleeper on each 
night train, and withdraw the 
antiquated cars hitherto in 

But there was one thing 
Callahan was not able to 
accomplish. He could not 
persuade the venerable 
president of the road to 
regard it as anything but a 
huge joke. The Hon. 
Duffield Rogers absolutely 
refused to leave his comfort- 
able chair in the club and 
take a trip over the Burdock. 
The president delighted in 
Callahan's company, and got 
him made a member of the 
club, setting him down as a 
graduate of the Wahoo 
University, which was 
supposed to exist somewhere 
in the remote west. Rogers 
was a privileged member and 
a founder of the club, so the 
committee did not scrutinise 
his recommendation too 

" It's no use, Jimmy," he 
said. " liife is hard enough 
at best, without my spending 
any part of it in a beastly 
place like Porta nd it. I hear 
you have done wonders with 
the road, but you can't do 
anything really worth while 
with a route that has no terminus on the 
Atlantic. As long as you have to liand over 
your eastern traffic to the Rockervelts at 
Warmington, and take what western freight 
they care to allow yon, you are in the clutch of 
the Rockervelts, and they can freeze you out 
whenever they like. 

You may grade, vou may ballast voiir road, if vou 

will, . ■' • 

But the shadow of Rockervelts over you still." 



Thus Callahan always received his dis- 
coura<jement from his own chief, and with 
most persons this would ultimately have 
dampened enthusiasm ; but Jimmy was ever 
optimistic and a believer in his work. One 
day he rushed into the club, his hut on tlie 
back of his head, a loose end of his qollar 
sticking over his ear, and his eyes ablaze 
with excitement. 

"Mr. Rogers, I've solved the problem at 
last ! " he cried. " I tell you, we'll make the 
Burdock the greatest hue in this country ! " 

He shoved away the heaps of magazines 
from the reading-roop table and spread out 
a map on its surface. The Hon. Duffield 
rose slowdy to his feet and stood beside the 
eager young man. A kindly, indulgent smile 
played about the lips of the aged president. 

" Now see here ! " shouted Callahan (they 
were alone together in the room, and 
the " Silence " placard made no protest). 
" There's Beech ville, on the Burdock Route, 
and here's Collins' Centre, on the C. P. & N. 
Between these two points are sixty-three miles 
of prairie country, as level as a floor. It will 
be the cheapest bit of road in America ; no 
embankments, no cuttings, no grade at all.- 
Why, just dump the rails down, and they'd 
form a road of themselves ! Once the 
Burdock taps the C. P. & N., there is our 
route clear through to tide- water, in- 
dependent of the Rockervelt System." 

Callahan, his face aglow, looked up at the 
veteran, but the indulgent smile had taken on 
a cynical touch, Mr. Rogers placed his 
hand on Jimmy's shoulder in kindly fashion 
and said slowly — 

" If that could have been done, it would 
have been done long since. You could not 
get your charter. Rockervelt would buy the 
Legislature, and it would be impossible to 
outbid him." 

Callahan's clenched fist came down on the 
map with a force that made the stout table 

" But I've got the charter ! " he roared, in 
a voice that made the hall-porter outside 
think there was a row in the reading-room. 
The Hon. Duffield Rogers sank once more 
iuto his arm-chair and gazed at Jimmy. 

" You've got the charter ? " he echoed 

" Certainly, and it didn't cost me a cent. 
The Governor signed it yesterday." 

" Out of the mouth of babes and suck- 
lings " murmured the old man, who had 

years of experience behind him in the bribing 
of law-makers. " In Heaven's name, how 
did you manage it ? " 

" I went to the capital, got acquainted 
with the legislators — splendid fellows, all of 
them — personal friends of mine now ; I 
showed them how such a link would benefit 
the State, and the Bill went through like 
that I " Jimmy snapped his fingers. 

" Well, I'm blessed ! " ejaculated the old- 
time purchaser of valuable franchises. 

" Now, Mr. Rogers, you imderstand 
financiering, and you know all the capitalists. 
I understand the railway busiiless. You 
get up the money, I'll build the road, and 
we'll be into New^ York with a whoop." 

For one brief instant Callahan thought he 
had conquered. Like an old war-hoise at 
the sound of the bugle, Rogers stift'ened his 
muscles for the fight. The light of battle 
flamed in his eye as the memory of the 
conquest of millions returned to him. But 
presently he leaned back in his chair with 
a sigh, and the light flickei'ed out. 

" Ah, Jimmy ! " he whispered plaintively, 
" I wish I had met you thirty years ago ; but 
alas ! you weren't born then. AVliat a team 
we would have made ! But I'm too old, 
and, besides, your scheme wouldn't work. I 
might get up the money, and I might not. 
The very name of the Burdock is a hoodoo. 
But even if the money were subscribed and 
the link built, we would merely be confronted 
by a railroad war. The Rockervelts would 
cut rates, and the longest purse would win, 
which means we would go to the wall." 

Callahan sat down with his face in his 
liands, thoroughly discouraged for the first 
time in his life. He felt a boyish desire to 
cry, and a mannish desire to curse, but did 
neither. The old gentleman rambled on 
amiably — 

" You are a ten-thousand-dollar man, 
Jimmy, but your line of progress is on some 
road with a future. Follow my advice and 
take your charter to that old thief Rocker- 
velt himself. There lies your market." 

" How can I do that," growled Jimmy 
from between his fingers, " when I am an 
employe of the Burdock ? " 

" Technically so am I ; therefore, as your 
chief, I advise you to see Rockervelt." 

"All right ! " cried Callahan, springing to 
his feet as if his minute of deep despondency 
had been time thrown aw^ay that could not 
be spared. He shook hands cordially with 
the president and returned his genial smile. 

On the steps of tlie club he was surprised 
to meet John Manson, who, he knew, rarely 
honoured that institution with his presence. 

"I was just going up to see you, Mr. 
Manson. I want you to do me a favour. 



I'm going to New York, and I'd like a letter 
of introduction to Mr. Rockervelt." 

The brow of the division superintendent 
knitted slightly, and he did not answer so 
readily as the other expected. 

" Well, you see, Callahan," he said at last, 
" I am merely a small official, and Mr. 
Rocker velt is an important man who knows 
his own importance. Etiquette prescribes 
that I should give you a letter to the- general 
manager, and he is the proper person to 
introduce you to Mr. Rockervelt. So, you 
see " 

" Oh, very well ! " exclaimed Callahan 
shortly, sorry he had asked. This rebutf, 
following so closely on the heels of his dis- 
appointment, clouded his usual good nature. 
He was about to go on, when Manson de- 
tained him, grasping the lapel of his coat. 

" Don't l3e offended, Jimmy ; and I'll tell 
you something no one else knows. I'm 
going to quit the railway business." 

" What ? " shouted Callahan, all his old 
affection for the man surging up within him 
as he now noted the trouble in his face. 
Manson quit the railway business ! It was 
as if he had calmly announced his intention 
to commit suicide. 

" That old fool Blair has been making 
trouble for you ? " he cried. 

"Oh, no! That is to 
say, there always has been a 
slight tension, and it doesn't 
grow better. I've made a 
little money — real estate has 
risen, you know, and that 
sort of thing — and I've 
been working hard ; so I 
intend to resign. I take it 
you have some scheme to 
propose to Mr. Rockervelt?" 

" Yes, I have." 

"Very well. Your scheme, if it is a good 
one, will prove your best introduction. He's 
an accessible man ; but plunge right to the 
point when you meet him. He likes direct- 
ness. And, by the way, he Avill be here 
Wednesday morning. The big conference 
of railway presidents begins on Thursday 
afternoon at Portandit, and he will be there, 
of course. We attach his private car to 
Number Three, Wednesday night, and your 
best time to see him might be in his car 
during the four miles he's running to the 
Junction. The express waits for him at 
the Junction. You haven't much time, 
but it will prove all the time he'll want 
to allow you if your project doesn't appeal 
to him." 

'' Say ! " cried Callahan, athrill with the 
portent of a sudden idea, "couldn't you 
persuade Rockervelt to hitch his car to the 
Burdock 'Thunderbolt'? I'll run him 
through to Portandit, and save him that 
dreary daylight trip from Tobasco." 

Manson shook his head. 

" No ; Mr. Rockervelt would go over no 
other road than his own. I could not pro- 
pose such a thing, and Mr. Blair would not." 

Callahan drew a deep breath. 

" Jimmy," said Manson gravely, " you 
should pay more attention to your personal 
appearance than you do — your collar's 

Callahan groped wildly round his ear for 
the missing end, but his mind was on some- 
thing else. Manson reached for it and 
quietly buttoned it into place again. Then 
the two men parted. 

Callahan walked down to the Grand Union 
Station deep in thought. He had deter- 
mined to take Rockervelt's private car from 
its place with one of his ow^n pony engines 
and attach it to his own express, and he was 
formulating his plans. Once away from the 
Junction, the Government itself could not 
stop him. And now we need a railway map 
to explain the situation. From Warmington 


000»< F^OUTf^^ 










to Portandit or to Tob.isco was a long night's 
ride. The " Thunderbolt " left the Junction 
on the Burdock Route at 8 p.m. The 
" Pacific Express," on the Midland, left at 
8.20 ; one train from tlie south side of the 
station, the other from the north. 

At ten minutes to eight, John Manson 
received a teleplione message asking him to 
remain within call. A short time after, 
when the men were coupling the private car 
to the west-bound train, Callahan rushed in 
to the telephone cabin and shouted — 

" That you, Mr. Manson ? " 

" Yes ; who are you ? " 

" Callahan. Say ! I've just coupled Rocker- 
velt's car to the * Thunderbolt.' Release 
Number Three, for she w41l wait in vain. 



Telegraph all those people that Rockervelt 
was to meet at Tobasco to-raorrow moriimg, 
to take the midnight train for Portandit and 
meet him there." 

" Callahan, are jou out of your senses ? " 

" No. It's all as I say. Nothing can stop 

" I haven't the list of the men that " 

" Then call np Blair. He's on Number 
Three. You must get the list." 

" Callahan, stop before it is too late. This 
is an outrage. It's kidnapping — brigand's 
work. You are breaking laws that will " 

" I know, I know. Good night, Mr. 

Callahan rushed out to the platform, 
nodded to the waiting conductor, swung 
himself on the Pullman-car, the conductor 
swung his lantern, and the " Thunderbolt " 
swung out into the night. 

When the deft and silent negro had 
cleared aw^ay the breakfast-dishes next 
morning and removed the tablecloth, Mr. 
Rockervelt leaned back in his chair and lit 
a cigar. There w^as much to think of, and 
he w^as thinking much. The car rolled along 
with gratifying smoothness, and the great 
man paid no attention to the scenery, 
otherwise he might have been startled, for 
he knew well the environment of his ow^n 
line. As for the negro, all roads w^ere 
alike to him, as was the case with the coon 
in the song, and he attended solely and 
silently to his master's comfort. He 
hovered about for a few moments, then said 
deferentially — 

"Day's a gennelman, sah, in de sleepah 
ahead's been asking for you, sah, two or 
three times dis mawning, sah. He'd like to 
have some conversation with you, sah, if 
you's disengaged." 

" Who is he ? " 

" Here's he's cawd, sah." 

Mr. Rockervelt glanced at the card, mur- 
muring : "James Callahan, General Manager, 
Burdock Route. That's strange." Then 
aloud : " Show Mr. Callahan in, Peter." 

The magnate did not rise as the red head 
bowed to him, but waved his hand towards 
a chair, a silent invitation of which his visitor 
did not avail himself. He recognised the 
great man at once from the many portraits 
he had seen of him. 

" I hope you have slept well, Mr. Rocker- 
velt," began the new-comer. 

" Excellently." 

" And I trust you found the road-bed in 
good order." 

Mr. Rockervelt raised his eyebrows and 

looked with some surprise at the polite 
inquirer before him. 

"My own bed and the road-bed left 
nothing to be desired, since you are so kind 
as to ask." 

" I am delighted to hear you say so, sir," 
cried Jimmy with enthusiasm. His host 
began to fear some demented person had got 
into his car, and he glanced over his shoulder 
for Peter, who was not visible. 

" AVhy should you be delighted to hear 
me praise my own road ? " he asked in tones 
that gave no hint of his uneasiness. 

" Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I wished 
a few minutes' talk with you, and that's not 
as easy come at as you might think. You 
are not on your own road, but on the 
Burdock Route, now rapidly approaching 
Portandit. I took the liberty last night of 
hitching your car to this' train, sir, instead 
of to your own Number Three." 

Rockervelt sat up in alarm, glanced out of 
the windows, first on one side, then on the 
other. Bringing back his gaze to the man 
before him, hot anger added colour to the 
usual floridness of his countenance. 

" You took the liberty, did you ? Well, 
let me tell you, sir, it is a liberty you will 
bitterly regret." 

" I am sorry to hear you say that, sir," 
replied Jimmy humbly. 

" The liberty ! Curse it, sir ! you have 
disarranged all my plans. There are three 
men in Tobasco whom it is imperative I 
should meet this forenoon before the con- 
vention opens." 

" Quite so, *sir. I had them telegraphed 
to take the midnight and meet you at 
Portandit instead. They'll be waiting for 
you when you get in, sir." 

" The dickens you did ! " gasped Rockervelt, 
sinking back in his chair. 

" You see, sir, it's an uneasy conference 
you would have had on that rocky road to 
Dublin, the T. and P. A long forenoon's 
ride, sir, with a road as rough as a rail fence. < 
It would be like coming down the Soo 
Rapids, only you wouldn't go so quick. 
You are too good a railroad man, sir, not 
to hate a day journey, and I counted on 

" It's a minor matter, but you happen to 
be right." 

" I have a carriage waiting for you, sir. 
You can drive to your hotel at your ease, 
hold your conference in your room, and drop 
in to the convention whenever it pleases 
you, sir." 

" Have you also arranged my return to 

'The magnate did not rise as the red head bowed to biiii.' 



New York, Mr. Callahan ? By what route 
do you intend to send me back ? " 

Jimmy laughed that cheerful, infectious 
laugh of his. He realised that the danger 
point w^as passed. 

" I hope you will get safe back to New 
York whatever route you take, sir." 

"Thank you. How long have you been 
general manager of this road ? " 

" About two years, sir." 

" Where did you learn the business ? " 

" In the greatest railroad school of this 
world, sir — the Rockervelt System." 

The faint shadow of a smile passed over 
the face of Mr. Rockervelt for the first time 
during the interview. 

" That I take as a handsome return for 
my testimonial to your road-bed. Why did 
you leave us P " 

" I failed to please Mr. Blair, sir." 

"In whose department were you ? " 

" In the division superintendent's." 

" Did you please John Manson ? " 

" I think I did, sir." 

" Um ! Well, now% you did not kidnap me 
for the purposes of pleasant conversation. I 
don't like to see good men leave us ; and if 
your object in kidnapping me was to come 
back to us, I may at once admit I am willing 
to entertain a proposal." 

"No, sir. 'That, was not my object, 
although I make bold to say that an offer 
from Mr. Rockervelt w^ould exact respect 
from the greatest in the land, and I'm no 
exception to my betters. What I wanted, 
sir, was for you to cast your eye over this 
map. The red line represents sixty-three 
miles of level country, and " 

" I see ; if a railway were built along that 
red line, your road would liave access to 
New York independent of me. Well, young 
man, don't let that red line worry you. I 
could not allow you to get a charter." 

" You're quick to see the possibilities, sir." 

" Yes, but there are no probabilities." 

" I'm not so sure of that, sir. Like the 
other fellow's fifteen dollars, I've got the 
charter in my inside pocket." 

" Do you mind showing it to me ? " asked 
Rockervelt, unconsciously finishing the line 
of the song referred to. Jimmy handed liim 
the documents, and the great man scrutinised 
them with the quick care of an expert ; then 
he folded them up again, but did not offer 
to return them. He gazed out upon the 
flying landscape for a few^ moments, wdiile 
Jimmy stood expectant. 

" How did you overcome Blair's opposi- 
tion ? " he inquired at last. 

" There was no opposition." 

The president's brow frowned, and a glint 
of anger appeared in the cold, calculating 

" I expect Blair to watch the Legislature 
as well as the railway." 

" He watches neither, sir." 

Rockervelt glanced sharply at the con- 
fident young man who thus dared to asperse 
one of the minor gods of the Rockervelt 

" Then who looks after the Midland ? " 

" John Manson, and does it quietly and 

"Where did you get the money to put 
this through ? A syndicate ? " 

" No ; I didn't need any money. All I 
needed was that one of your general managers 
should be sound asleep, and time to make 
personal friends of the members of the 

"I see you are prejudiced against Mr. 

" I am, sir." 

Rockervelt pulled himself together as one 
who has had enough of badinage and now 
prepares for business. His impassive face 
hardened, and the onlooker saw before him 
the man who had ruthlessly crushed opposi- 
tion, regardless of consequences. 

" Now, young man," he began, in a voice 
that cut like a knife, " do you know the 
value of these documents ? " 

" Yes, sir ; they're not worth a cent ! " 

" What ! " cried Rockervelt, suddenly 
sitting straight. "I thought you had kid- 
napped me to hold me up, as is the genial 
Western fashion. Don't you want to sell 
this charter ? " 

"No, sir. I offered the charter to the 
president of the Burdock, as was my duty, 
but he said you would beat any combination 
that might be formed in the long run." 

" Yes, or in the short run. Sensible man, 
Rogers. Well, sir, you do not expect an 
exorbitant price for a worthless charter ? " 

" I want no price at all. The charter ig 
yours. But I'd like to offer a bit of advice 
as well as the charter. Make John Manson 
' manager of the Midland." 

"I resolved to do that ten minutes ago. 
Now, what for yourself ? " 

" Only bear me in mind when you have a 
place looking for a red-headed man down 

"Perhaps you expect Manson's vacant 
post on the Midland ? " suggested Rockervelt 

" I've no doubt he'd give it to me," 



replied Jimmy frankly ; " but if you mean 
that Mr. Manson and I have made a deal, 
we're neither of us that kind of person. 
Manson knows nothing of this, and is a very 
anxious man since I telephoned from the 
Junction last night that I hooked your car 
to my train. He was warning me against 
the penalties as I rang him off." 

" I believe you. Now, I want a special 
over your road to bring Manson to Portandit 
at once." 

" Certainly, sir." 

" You make arrangements, and I'll tele- 
graph to him as soon as we arrive. I'll give 
you eight thousand dollars a year to begin 
on if you'll come to New York." 

" I'll take it, sir." 

" You don't ask what your duties are 
to be. Are you so confident you can fulfil 
them ? " 

" If they pertain to railroading, I'll 
guarantee to do them a little better than 
anyone else." 

" That's the kind of man I want." 

John Manson had not much to say for 
himself when, with Jimmy Callahan, he stood 
before Rocker velt next day, but it was easy 

to see that the belated recognition and pro- 
motion which had come so unexpectedly had 
made a new man of him. 

As he and Jimmy went from the presence 
together and reached the street, Manson 
said — 

" Now, Callahan, I want you to leave the 
Burdock and take the vacant division super- 

Jimmy laughed joyously as he realised his 
friend had no notion of what had happened. 
Manson looked gravely at him and con- 
tinued — 

"It is worth " He paused, and a 

scarcely perceptible shade of loving annoy- 
ance passed over his face. '* Callalian," he 
said slowly, " your necktie has slipped round 
under your right ear. When you meet men 
like Mr. Rockervelt, you cannot be too careful 
of your personal ap{)earance. Let me put it 
straight for you." 

Callahan raised his chin and laughed again, 
while Manson tugged at tlie tie. 

" You may laugh, Jimmy, but these little 
things are sometimes important, and I want 
to see you succeed as you deserye. There, 
that's better." 

And Jimmy said no word of his eight 
thousand a year to begin on. 

":V,rr;\^:.^; "^^^ :.-!-/' 

f. ] "s' ' li-M^^' T ^l r > -"' '--' '^ '""fe^ ''"*•'' t^'"-"* \ , 

From the Picture by D. A. C. Artz. 

Reproduced fn mi a photograph by M. J. Parsons, The Hayve. 


Rf>called and Pictured by 


'N the eighteentli centiuy 
there existed a club called 
''The Ugly 
Club," into 
which none 
but those of 
t li e most 
d ownright, 
ugliness were 
admitted as 
members. The 
worship of the 
Ugly is, per- 
haps, quite as 
offensive as 
the worship of Adonis. But certainly ugly 
people, from squinting Wilkes to conceited 
men of our own time, are just as vain as 
A polios. 

Yain, ugly people, in seeking compliments, 
often get the worst of it ; and, as the 
following instance shows, sometimes from 
their servants and flatterers. A Southern 
American Adonis, no way celebrated for his 
personal attractions, on completing a some- 
what protracted toilet one morning, turned 
to his servant and inquired — 
"How do Hook, Cgesar?" 
" Tlendid, massa ! 'plendid ! " was Ebony's 
delighted answer. 

" Do you think I'll do, Caesar ? " giving 
him a piece of silver. 

" Guy, massa ! nebber see you look so 
fierce in all my life ! You look jis as bold 
as a lion ! " 

" Why, what do you know about a lion ? 
You never saw one, CiBsar." 

" Nebber see a lion, massa ! Guy ! I 
see Massa Peyton's Jim ride one ober to the 
mill ebery day." 

" No, you fool ! that's a donkey." 
" Can't help dat, massa. You look jis like 
him ! " 

It is a curious subject for reflection that 
in any collection of clever men, the majority 
are ugly. But, after all, what does it 
matter ? For we are told that the ugliest 
men look pretty after death. If this be 
true, the question that suggests itself is, how 

are they to be recognised by their friends ? 
For ujany great men believe in ghosts. 
Brougham, in after life, was led to believe 
in ghost- walking. He has left it on record 
that after he left the High School, he went 

with his most intimate friend, G , to 

attend the classes in the University. " There 
was no divinity class," Lord Brougham 
continues ; " but frequently, in our walks, 
we discussed and 'speculated upon many 
grave subjects — among others, on the im- 
mortality of the soul, and on a future state. 
This question, and the possibility, I will not 
say of ghosts walking, but of the dead 
appearing to the living, were subjects of- 
much speculation ; and we actually com- 
mitted the folly of drawing up an agreement, 
written with our blood, to the effect that 
whichever of us died the first should appear 
to the other, and thus solve any doubts we 
had entertained of the 'life after death.' 
After we had finished our classes at the 

college, G went to India, having got an 

appointment there in the Civil Service. He 
seldom wrote to me, and after the lapse of a 
few years I had almost forgotten him ; 
moreover, his family having little connection 
with Edinburgh, I seldom saw or heard 
anything of them, or of him through them, 
so that all the old sclioolboy intimacy had 
died out, and I had nearly forgotten his 
existence. I had taken, as I have said, a 
warm bath ; and while lying in it and 
enjoying the comfort of the heat, after the 
late freezing I had undergone, I turned my 
head round, looking towards the chair on 
which I had deposited my clothes, as I was 
about to get out of the bath. On the chair 

sat G , looking calmly at me. How I 

got out of the bath, I know not ; but on 
recovering my senses, I found myself 
sprawling on the floor. This apparition, or 
whatever it was that had taken the likeness 

of G , had disappeared. This vision 

produced such a shock that I had no in- 
clination to talk about it, or to speak about 
it even to Stuart ; but the impression it 
made upon me was too vivid to be easily 
forgotten ; and so strongly was I affected by 
it that I have written down the whole 




history, with the date, 19th December, and 
all the particulars, as thej are now fresh 
before me. No doubt I had fallen asleep ; 
and that the appearance presented so dis- 
tinctly to my eyes was a dream, I cannot for 
a moment doubt ; yet for years I had had 

no communication with G , nor had 

there been anything to recall him to my 
recollection ; nothing had taken place 
during our Swedish travels either connected 

with G or with India, or with anything 

relating to him or to any member of his 
family. I recollected quickly enough our 
old discussion, and the bargain we had made. 
I could not discharge from my mind the 

impression that G must have died, and 

that his appearance to me was to be received 
by me as proof of a future state." 

This was on December 19, 1799. In 
October, 1862, Lord Brougham added as a 
postscript : — 

"I have just been copying out from my 
journal the account of this strange dream : 
Certissima mortis imago! And now to finish 
the story begun about sixty years since. 
Soon after my return to Edinburgh, there 
arrived a letter from India, announcing 

G 's death ! and stating that he hs,d 

died on the 19th December." And yet 
Brougham had humour ! Here is a speci- 
men of his ready wit. " Lawyer," said Lord 



Brougham (in a facetious mood), *Ms a 
learned gentleman who rescues your estate 
from your enemies, and keeps it himself." 

Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer 
Lytton is a lengthy name sure of a remark- 
able place in nineteenth century English 
literature, by reason of the varied attainments 
of its owner, who "sought and obtained 
distinction in almost every department of 
literature and in poetry, the drama, the 
historical romance, domestic novel, philo- 
sophical essay, and political disquisition." 
Furthermore its owner "appeared as an author 
in printed volume in his fifteenth year " — in 
fact, he had courted the poetic muse when he 
was only five or six years old. He had a bril- 
liant University career, carrying off, when a 
fellow-commoner of Trinity Hall, Cam- 
bridge, the Chancellor's medal for the best 
English poem. Nature gave Edward George 
Earle Lytton Bulwer Lytton a face as long 
as the name he bore, " a name that might 
serve in point of length for a Spanish 

His was certainly not the head of a pre- 
cocious, brilliant, successful, aristocratic man 
of genius. It was not even a strong head. 
E.G.E.L.B.L. was at first an imitator of 
Theodore Hook when starting prose ; an 
imitator of Byron when writing verse ; " a 
fop, a fine, sallow, sublime sort of Werter- 
faced man, with moustache that gave — what 
we read so oft — that dear Corsai. -expression, 



half savage, half soft." It is possible that 
Biilwer Lytton's head appears uglier in por- 
traiture than it did in real life, for if a man 
has an aristocratic, dignified manner, and 

" carries his head well," the head does not so 
much matter. Tt is an ugly head badly set 
that repels one. 

For instance, Joseph Biggar, the famous 
member of the Irish party which began to 
worry Mr. Gladstone, and eventually de- 
stroyed him and his party, was a hunch- 
back, with a grating, harsh voice, a strong 
Irish accent, an exceedingly plain face, long, 
bony fingers, huge feet, an uncanny smile, 
and yet a kindness of heart that made 
him beloved by his brother obstructionists. 
If Biggar's head had been on ParnelFs 
shoulders, no one would have been impressed 
with his ughness ; neither his voice nor his 
face would have struck one as particularly 

Ireland has produced, for its size, a re- 
markable number of great men — soldiers, 
lawyers, scientists, clerics, and orators — a 
number of handsome men, and a remarkable 
number of ugly ones. I do not refer to the 
caricature of humanity found in many parts 
of Ireland, an ugliness caused by generations 
of poverty and misery. As one of its historians 

writes : " The style of living is ascertained to 
have a powerful effect in modifying the 
human figure in the course of generations, 
and this even in its osseous structure. About 
two hundred years ago, a number of people 
were driven by a barbarous policy from the 
counties of Antrim and Down, in Ireland, 
towards the sea-coast, where they have ever 
since been settled, but in unusually miserable 
circumstances, even for Ireland ; and the 
consequence is that they exhibit peculiar 
features of the most repulsive kind — pro- 
jecting jaws, with large, open mouths, de- 
pressed noses, high cheek-bones, and bow 
legs, together with an extremely diminutive 

I do not touch upon the general character- 
istics of a nation, but select a few great men 
who have been notoriously ugly. Ireland 
has produced many, but not one of these 
could have sprung from the class above 




mentioned. For instance, anions^ its lawyei3 
Baron Dowse was, perhaps, the ugliest. The 
day his caricature 
by Pellegrini 
a p p e a r ed in 
Van it// Fair, he 
ran out of the 
House of Com- 
mons, and left 
London the same 
night— to remain 
away until it was 
forgotten But 
it never can be 
forgotten, for it 
was true to the 
life. I cannot 
hnd a copy of it, 
but here is a 
sketch of Baron 
Dowse as I re- 
member him ill 
the Lobby of the Commons when I first 
visited the place, and some years before I 
began my Parliament- 
ary caricatures in 

Another Irishman, 
the Most Eev. Dr. 
William Connor 
Magee, Bishop of 
Peterborough, after- 
wards Archbishop of 
York, known as the 
Chrysostom of the 
House of Lords, was 
one of the most elo- 
quent preachers of the 
Victorian Era, and a 
fine debater and one of 
the most effective plat- 
form speakers of his 
day. Like the majority 
of eloquent men, he 
was ugly. His heavy 
eyebrows, small eyes, 
short nose, long upper 
lip, large mouth, mas- 
sive jowl, and shaggy 
side whiskers, when 
represented in repose, 
produce the portrait 
of a gargoylish head. 
Although not as ugly 
as Pierre du Coiquet, 
he ran that Church 
hater pretty close. 
Fire, however, burst forth in the eloquence 
that proceeded from the mouth of the pre- 



late of York, instead of being extinguished 
in the stony but more shapely mouths. 

Another clever, 
but ugly. Irish- 
man, with the 
typical burlesque 
Hibernian physi- 
ognomy, was that 
great aural sur- 
geon, Sir William 
Wilde,, who was 
also a great 
antiquarian. The 
following lines 
sum up his very 
varied attain- 
ments : — 

He wins not as 
knights of old. lie 
Not "daylights'' out 
forsooth, but day- 
light in I 
lie sacks no castles, desecrates no fanes, 
But 'midst the relics of the antique hours, 
Rebuilds for fancy, from their dim remains,- 
The holy shrines and battlemented towers. 

One of the most 
familiar figures of our 
time passed away in 
the person of Professor 
Tyndall, another great 
Irishman, who hved 
close to Tennyson, at 
Hindhead, Haslemere. 
Few knew him there, 
in his erratically built 
house on top of the 
Surrey Hills ; but he 
was known by every- 
body at the Royal 
Institution, and ad- 
mired for his skill and 
energy. " Heat as a 
Mode of Motion " was 
the title of one book he 
published, containing 
a series of lectures he 
had given ; and cer- 
tainly the popular 
scientist lived up to it, 
for he was heated upon 
every subject, from 
Home Rule to his 
house at Hindhead. 
He was also a great 
pedestrian and was 
always on the move. 
I read that he selected 
Hindhead as his abiding-place "as he was 
always curiously sensitive to the beauty of 




scenery." Yes, but the Professor evidently 
took no one else into consideration, for he 
ruined the hill by the hideous house he had 
built on the top, and, so that his eyes might 
not be offended by the sight of anyone else, 
he put up huge screens over the hill to hide 
his neighbours' dwellings. We shall probably 
have as many anecdotes of Tyndall as we had 
of Jowett ; but I dare say the following is 
not generally known, and it shows the 


straining for theatrical effect which was 
characteristic of the Professor. He was 
experimenting at the Royal Institution in 
preparation for a coming lecture, when a 
beautiful instrument he was using fell off 
the table. He vaulted over the table and 
caught the instrument before it reached the 
ground, and was so delighted with his agility 
that he practised that acrobatic feat all the 
afternoon, and " brought down the house '' 
with it in the evening, everybody naturally 

enough thinking it was a pure accident. 
Tyndall may well be included in this gallery 
to show that I am right in saying that ugly 
men are often the cleverest. 

Darwin, too, may well be included in the 
gallery of ugly men. It was a propos of this 
giant in science that Mr. Disraeli made the 
famous remark which was immediately seized 
upon by the caricaturists of the time : ''I 
am on the side of the angels." It is plain to 
anyone that " Dizzy " as an angel did not 
make a very flattering picture, and yet he 
was not an ugly man in the sense in which 
Darwin was. It was only an exaggeration 
of his Jewish face — the large nose, the thick 
lips, and the oily curls, that gave an excuse 
for the draughtsmen to make him at times 
repulsive. Generally, however, he was shown 
with a face rather amusing than ugly. It 
was left to the great Sir John Millais to 
produce a portrait of Lord Beacon sfield in 
his later days, exhibited in the Academy, 
which, honestly speaking, was not in the 
slightest degree like the great statesman, 
and, unfortunately, was one of the most 
unattractive portraits of him ever produced. 
The flesh hanging from the eye was un- 
necessary and objectionable. But now that 
Lord Beaconsfield is on the side of the 
angels, let us turn back to what he said of 
Darwin in the speech to which I refer : — 

" I hold that the function of science is 
the interpretation of Nature — and the in- 
terpretation of the highest nature is the 
highest science. What is the highest nature ? 
Man is the highest nature. But I must say 
that when I compare the interpretation of 
the highest nature by the most advanced, 
the most fashionable and modish school of 
modern science, with some other teachings 
with which we are familiar, I am not pre- 
pared to say that the lecture-room is more 
scientific than the church. What is the 
question now placed before society with a 
glib assurance the most astounding ? The 
question is this : Is man an ape or an 
angel ? 

"My lord, I am on the side of the angels. 
I repudiate with indignation and abhorrence 
the contrary view, which is, I believe, foreign 
to the conscience of humanity. More than 
that, even in the strictest intellectual point 
of view, I believe the severest metaphysical 
analysis is opposed to such a conclusion." 

Professors, being, as a rule, clever men, 
are naturally not handsome men. Huxley, 
for instance, had the very opposite kind of 
face to that of Tyndall, and yet in his way 
could boast of being nearly as plain. I think 



myself, as an artist, that professors may 
be born beautiful, but that the facial contor- 
tions necessary for repeating the awful words 
relating to the subjects with which they 
have to deal may have some effect. For 
instance, when quite young and when acting 
as an assistant-surgeon on H.M.S. Rattle- 
snake, Huxley produced a work entitled 
" Oceanic Hydrozoa ; a Description of the 
Calycophoridae and Physophoridae observed 
during a Voyage of H.M.S. Rattlesnake''' 

Another instance of an ugly man being a 
" brainy man," as the Americans would say, 
is that of Hugh Reginald Haweis. Mr. 
Haweis was not only eccentric in appearance, 
but also eccentric in everything, albeit clever, 
brilliant, and a musical critic of the first 
order. In early life, unfortunately, he con- 
tracted hip disease, which m^de him lame 
and prevented his pursuing the more active 
phases of a literary or clerical career. He 
began as a violinist, afterwards became a 
sort of free-lance of the Church, and drew 
tremendous audiences to his church, St. 
James's, Marylebone. Into his sermons he 
introduced much that is usually looked for 
on the popular platform ; into his platform 
work he introduced much that is looked for 
in the pulpit. He organised an excellent 
choir composed of ladies, and, indeed, owed a 


great deal of his popularity to his admirers 
among the opposite sex. He once produced 
in the pulpit a lady's shoe which he had 
found by the entrance to his church when 
he arrived — one lost in the crush at the 
opening of the doors. To his wife, who also 
wrote and talked on many subjects, he owed 
much. He shaved off his " weepers " in 
later life. 

A gallery of famous ugly women could be 
easily arranged. In fact, when one came to 
compile the catalogue of women of genius, 
it would be difficult to find a pretty one. 
The majority of clever women, in the past 
at any rate, have been downright ugly — 
novelists, artists, musicians, and other women 
of marked intellectual endowment. In fact, 
a pretty face, as distinct from one of strong 
chai'acter, covers a multitude lof mediocrity, 
and we have raised to the pedestals of clever 
women mere commonplace, pretty-faced, 
perhaps titled nojaentities, -These are not 
the women I refer to. 'I shall take one 
great woman— George I^liot. I could deal 
with other clever women of more recent 
date, but it would be ungallant to do so. 

I have been abused by writers in the 
Press — possibly women — for caricaturing 
their sex. Well, if women come out of their 
proper sphere and pose as public characters, 
they must run the risk of criticism, be it 
with pen or pencil, whether they sit on the 
Bench, in the War Office, or upon the 
political platform. Yet I venture to say 




that no caricaturist's pencil could be more 
severe than the following two pen portraits 
of the great novelist, George Eliot— one 
written bj a woman, the other by a man. 

" If I must be frank, George Eliot was 
very plain — much plainer than any of the 
portraits make her out to be. Her mouth 
was repulsive, and, seen in some liglits, the 
nose seemed to protrude unnaturally over 
the mouth. It did not in reality, but one 
sometimes received that impression." 

This is the recollection the great novelist's 
personal appearance left upon the memory of 
Mrs. Katherine S. *Macquoid. It is not 
flattering, but far less so is a description 
written by the late Mr. Locker Lampson, 
the poet. " Her countenance," wrote Mr. 
Lampson, " was equine. She was rather like 
a horse, and her head had been intended for 
a much larger body. She was not a tall 
w^oman. She wore her hair in not pleasing, 
out-of -fashion loops, coming dow^n on either 
side of her face and so hiding her ears ; 
and her garments concealed her outline — 
they gave her a waist like a milestone. 
To my mind, George Eliot w^as a plain 

Strange to say, I came across these two 
" pen portraits " in a paper which suggested 
(and subsequently apologised for doing so) 
that I had got into serious trouble for once 
caricaturing a woman ! 

Mr. L. G. Lequin, in his essay on George 
Eliot (1888), says of her union with George 
Lewes : " That it was productive of much 

domestic happiness there can be no doubt. 
All George Eliot's more important manu- 
scripts are inscribed with words such as 
these : * Adam Bede : To my dear husband 
I give the MS. of a work which w^ould 
never have been written but for the happi- 
ness which his love has conferred upon my 
life.' " And to Mr. Lewies the world owes 
this debt of gratitude, that it was entirely 
"through his suggestions and under his 
influence that George Eliot turned her 
thoughts towards writing fiction." 

She had an exceptionally sweet voice. 
** As a girl, she was said to be plain ; as a 
woman, her face had more power than 
beauty in it. She was supposed equally to 
resemble the poet Dante and the reformer 

In an autograph album sent to me for my 
signature, I came across the following old 
quotation, signed by a well-known and 
very plain lady of letters : " It is generally 
acknowledged that ill-favoured persons are 
often the most agreeable. I have heard it 
said it is a talent given them to counter- 
balance their deformity. On the other hand, 
we often see persons of extreme beauty are 
the least informed. Is it not that the latter 
think more of admiring their bodies than 
their minds ? And so the reverse with the 
former, seeing they are not likely to gain 
anything by their personal appearance, they 
leave their face (so to speak) to take care of 
itself, and set about ornamenting their 




SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.— The story opened in the schoolhouse of Lowran. The Ploughin.^ 
jNIatch Day had been a holiday since the beo:inning of time ; but Donald Gracie, the schoolmaster, had on this 
occasion denied the request of his scholars. A riot provoked the Dominie into striking the biggest youth in the 
school, Muckle Sandy, who retorted by knocking the schoolmaster down. Dora Gracie, the schoolmaster's daughter, 
with the aid of " Strong Mac," one of the bigger boys, proceeded to teach the school. The Dominie himself 
comes of distinguished stock, but has fallen on evil days through his fatal craving for drink. Strong Mac wins 
the " Single-handed " cup in the ploughing match. Charlotte Webster, in love with Strong Mac, is alarmed lest 
in her pique at his preference for Adora Gracie she has betra^^ed him as a poacher into the hands of the Laird's 
gamekeepers. The real fact, however, was that an incriminating pheasant in Mac's bag had been taken from his 
shoulders by a boyish devotee of Mac's, known as Daid the Deil, who was wounded by a shot from the keeper's 
gun, Strong Mac himself being released as blameless. The injury to the boy fired Sharon McCulloch, the father 
of Mac, a dour enemy of the great landlord from reasons of ancient wrong, to establish afresh a right of wav 
"to kirk and market" through recently locked gates on the Laird's estate. Further developments showed the 
repulse of the Laird's attentions by Adora, and the revealing to the former that Strong Mac is probably his more 
favoured rival. Jock Fairies and Sandy Ewan are also suitors to Adora, and Sandy Ewan plots with one Crob 
McRobb to have Mac accused of sheep-stealing; and as Mac and Adora loiter homewards from a party, Mac is 
arrested. While Mac is awaiting trial, Sandy Ewan renews his suit to Adora ; and when again rejected, vows to be 
revenged. On the day of the annual Presbyterial Examination, he plies the weak Dominie with drink, so that the 
Members of the Presbytery are kept waiting, and eventually defied by the drunken old man, who is thereupon 
dismissed from his post and left homeless and disgraced. Unexpectedly set free by the Lord Advocate's decision. 
Strong Mac learns from Sidney Latimer of what has befallen Adora and her father, and soon afterwards the 
murdered body of Sandy Ewan is found by the roadside ; and while he halts between a suspicion that Mac is guilt}' 
and the desire to spare the lover of Adora, the young Laird of Lowran is himself attacked and kidnapped, and Mac 
and his father are arrested for his supposed assassination. 



WHEN Sidney Latimer left the 
lighted window of the House of 
Mnir, he gave up all thought 
of denouncing Roy McCulloch. This 
seemed a true and worthy thing to do ; 
yet had he contrived the worst possible 
against Roy and ^dora, the young laird 
could not have played the devil's game better 
than by doing as he did. So mysterious is 
the train of consequences which follows 
every action, however trivial, that we suffer 
(and make others suffer) as often and as 
severely for our well-intentioned as for our 
evil actions. Doubtless there are compensa- 
tions, but the fact remains. The philosophy 
of "Be good, and you will get a lump of 
sugar ! Be bad, and you will get nasty 
medicine ! " is untrue to the facts of 

So many-ton gued Rumour, flying from 
door to door, lifting the latch, and shouting 
an amended and re-edited tale into every 
house, spoke more truly than usual when it 
represented Adora and her father as having 
been turned out upon the waste after the 

* Copyright, 1903, by S. R. Crockett, in the United 
States of America. 

capture of the McCullochs by the crowd of 
several hundred men, from all parts, which 
suddenly invaded the solitudes of House of 

How Adora came to be there at all may 
be told in a few words. It chanced that 
Sharon McCulloch — stern, sober-faced old 
ex-smuggler, whom no Examination Presby- 
terial could for a moment have drawn a yard 
from his door— had business in the village of 
Lowran on the day when Sandy Ewan's trick 
was being spoken of, and even laughed 
over, at the bar of Lucky Green trees' public - 

Sharon was making ready for his home- 
ward ride, and, as a last precaution, he 
always tossed over his throat a tass of brandy 
to the good of the house. He stood tall 
and erect, fingering the pewter in which his 
half - mutchkin had been served to him. 
Silently he listened to the tale, how in this 
very room the Dominie had been made to 
drink till he could not see, Sandy Ewan 
plying him with liquor skilfully all the while. 
Then the hanger-on aforesaid, who related 
the instructive apologue with some humour, 
told how he had " oxtered " Donald Gracie 
to his own school door, and there listened 
till at the proper moment, carefully waited 
for, Sandy Ewan had pushed him " in amang 
a' the ministers I " 




Sterner and greyer each moment stood 
Sharon McOuUoch, gripping his whip tighter 
in his hand, till at the climax he astonished 
the company by reaching over a huge hand 
for the narrator. Without a word of ex- 
planation or apology, he dragged him over 
the table into the open, where lie lashed him 
fierce and long, at last flinging the tale- 
bearer on the ground, whimpering like the 
hound he was. 

Then the master of House of Muir made 
a little speech to the company and de- 
parted to look for Sandy Ewan ! Happily, 
instead, he found Adota Gracie. And then, 
at the sight of the girl's desolation, the 
stern-faced old law-breaker had melted com- 

" For my boy's sake — for my loneliness' 
sake — come ! " he had bidden her, " There 
is an empty hoose, but a warm, warm wel- 
come on the muirs ! " 

Thus it was that while Eoy lay fretting in 
the gaol at St. Cuthbertstown, there had 
come into his father's house, in all good 
liking and free will, the one thing he had 
most despaired of seeing there. 

Upon his return, Adora had met his 
triumphant surprise and rejoicing with quiet 
thankfulness and gratitude. She had never 
doubted such an ending to his imprisonment. 
But she found so much that needed doing in 
the House of Muir that even Roy's advent 
made no great change in her mode of life. 
Sharon McCulloch, grave and reserved as 
ever, walked by her side every evening, he 
or his son, but, on the whole, more frequently 
Sharon. Their path always led them towards 
the high angle of the property, the apex of 
the triangle near which was a cairn on a 
little heathery knoll. Sharon did not look 
that way, but instead gazed absent-mindedly 
into the sunset. He never spoke of the wife 
whom he had found there lying dead upon 
his return from market. But the mere com- 
panionship of the young girl by his side 
somehow softened and warmed Sharon 
McOulloch, so that on coming in, Roy would 
often notice a difference in his father — 
something softer about his face than he had 
ever remarked there before, which was 
doubtless the resurrection of the young man 
who in a certain old summer walked these 
hills of heather with another girl as beautiful 
and as young. 

Indeed, it seemed as if at times Sharon 
himself forgot. For on one occasion, after 
a long period of silence, he turned upon 
Adora with the question : " But where have 
you left the boys so long ? " 

Then, instantly recollecting himself, he 
added, sharply for him in these days : " I 
think we had better go in ! " 


Upon which, all suddenly, breaking into 
this life of peace and happiness, there had 
arrived a howling, furious mob led by 
Jonathan Grier. Then Adora had seen Roy, 
an angered Roy, a Roy whom she had never 
seen, fighting for his life, striking down one 
after the other till at last he was mastered 
by numbers. Then the house which she 
had begun to beautify and care for was put 
to sack, the furniture flung out of the 
window, the panelled walls of the chambers 
torn down under guise of search for evidence. 
After that the officers of the law came, 
taking a kind of possession, who posed her 
with horrid questions. 

" Would she give evidence of this ? Had 
she been present at that ? What was her 
position in tbe household ? By what right 
was she there ? " 

And so, as it was succinctly enough stated 
in the popular report, she and her drunken 
father had been turned out upon the heather. 

The Lowland Scots, the Scots of Galloway 
in especial, are a kind-hearted folk. So it 
has been said and sung of them, and it is 
true. But students of national manners 
know that, upon occasion, such a kind- 
hearted folk can be more cruel than many a 
people whom the world holds habit and 
repute for savagery. 

The Laird of Lowran was popular. His 
family had been " weel-likit " for genera- 
tions before him. Much was expected of 
the young man, when once he had wedded 
" a suitable person " and emancipated himself 
thoroughly from the yoke of his mother, 
who, in spite of her forty years' residence in 
Lowran, was still looked upon as an incomer 
and " nae real Latimer ! " 

On the other hand, Adora Gracie, save 
with a limited number of the younger men, 
and Aline, could hardly be said to be popular. 
She was too pretty, and her tongue was 
somewhat oversharp. Moreover, she was 
supposed to hold her head too high for her 
position — which is, in Galloway, one of the 
cardinal sins. Then the sheep-stealing, the 
killing of Sandy Ewan, and the disappear- 
ance of the young laird, were all, in the 
" giff-gaff " of old wives' clatter, clearly 
traceable to the inexplicable attraction which 
foolish young men have for such "creatures." 

As Mistress Girnwood said very judiciously 
to her gossip. Mistress Tod Lowrie, the 
senior Bailie's wife of Cairn Edward, as she 

" Certain of the baser sort jeered at thenv through the open doorway. 



put ail extra "cinder" in her tea: " If I had 
my way, it's her that should hang for it ! " 

When Adora took her way from the door 
of the House of Muir, it was a typical 
September day, clear and dry — not warm, 
but with that grip in the air that wins the 
corn on the rigs, sets the stooks a-rustliug, 
and rejoices the heart of the farmer. 
Beneath her eye lay the little hard-won 
gussets of ploughland which Roy had laid 
into furrows for Sharon to sow, his tall, 
gaunt figure looking Biblical in its girding 
of sackcloth, from the cross-folds of which 
he swung the graia abroad in alternate 
handfuls. Farther yont, Adora's eye fell on 
the knoll where Sharon had seen a woman 
sit as if asleep, being dead. 

So, taking her worse than dead in her 
hand, Adora went slowly about the corner of 
the barn. Certain of the baser sort, the 
slack-water of the ruffian tide of the morn- 
ing, jeered at them through the open door- 
way. And there was no strong Roy now to 
fell the insulter with a blow, nor a stern 
Sharon fitly to lay whip-lash where it ought 
to lie. But Adora, taking her father by the 
hand, led him a little about so that he might 
not hear. She herself was not much cast 
down, for she .hugged closer to her heart 
that eternal right of the downtrodden — the 
appeal from earthly injustice to the high 
universal Caesar who sits in the heavens, who 
cannot do other than judge rightly. 

To the eye of sense it was a sad little pro- 
cession enough — the girl leading the broken- 
down old man by the hand. For Donald 
Gracie, suddenly divorced from his life's 
work, fretted like a child that he was once 
more compelled to remove from surroundings 
that siiited him so well. 

" Adora, I have over and over endeavoured 
to impress upon you," he reiterated com- 
plainingly, as they took their way down the 
hill, " that I refuse to return to the school 
of LowTan parish, where I was treated with 
such disrespect. At least Dr. Meiklewham 
shall apologise to me in the presence of the 
scholars before 1 will consent to give a 
single lesson there ! The Presbytery shall 
apologise ! And I cannot help thinking, 
Adora, that it argues a certain lack of con^ 
sideration for your father's feelings, Adora, 
that you insist upon taking him back to a 
place of so many painful memories ! " 

"We are not going to the schoolhouse, 
father," the girl answered, with some of the 
apathy wdiich accompanies great sorrow\ 

" Then may I ask why," cried the Dominie 
ghrilly, " have we left j^onder most comfort- 

able domicile pertaining to my excellent 
friend and late pupil ? His father seems a 
very superior man, though he had finished 
his schooling before I came to the district. 
But though never cordial, Mr. McCuUoch 
senior appeared to desire our company. 
x\lso, though I cannot expect it to weigh 
with you, I must point out that the mountain 
air agreed with me. I would not for the 
world say anything hurtful to your feelingr, 
but I think you will admit that these frequent 
changes of plan are not dictated by those 
thoughtful and unselfish considerations which 
I have the right to expect from an only 
daughter ! " 

To this the girl answered nothing. Her 
heart was too sore within her. She merely 
adjusted her arm so that the old man might 
lean more heavily upon it, guiding him over 
the rough places of the way with a tenderness 
surprising in one so quick and brusque. It 
was not long before the wandering wits of the 
Dominie took up a new aspect of the subject. 

"I fear much that I have been over-lenient 
with you, xidora," he began again, tapping 
with his stick on the hard roadway. "It 
has been borne in upon me lately that I 
ought to have been more strict with you. I 
have given you your own way too long—as, 
God forgive me ! in my youth I took mine — 
I mean in matters of the heart. But I am 
persuaded that I have gone too far in sub- 
mitting to your girl's whimsies. There was, 
for instance, that excellent young man, 
Alexander Ewan. Had you taken your 
father's advice, a world of trouble would 
have been spared. Even you cannot deny 
that. And now again, after some time in 
this well-plenished and most comfortable 
house — not that it is a mansion, but a very 
respectable and yeomanly dwelling, where 
my comforts have been attended to and my 
wishes studied — we find ourselves turned out 
because you would not, in time, make up your 
mind to wed the young man of the house, my 
old pupil and good friend, Roy McCulloch ! " 

Adora held her peace, steadily pursuing 
her way. 

" This is the more surprising that you 
yourself held constantly by his innocence. 
You would hear no other word, even from 
your own father. And that being so, and 
your feelings evidently engaged, it would 
have regularised our presence in the house if 
you had been married to him, even accord- 
ing to the irregular Scots method, which 
— though good in law and binding upon 
parties— as Clerk of the Kirk-session of 
Lowran parish, I have alwaj^s thought it mj 



duty to discountenance. Still, there are 
cases — and this is one of them. As Roy 
McCuUoch's wife, we could not have been 
dispossessed of our honourable position and 
downsitting at House of Muir. We would 
have remained to take care of the young 
man's property, and whatever happened, we 
should have been provided for " 

" Oh, father ! " cried the giil, at last losing 
patience, " you do not understand what you 
say. I am not married to Roy McCulloch. 
I have no intention of marrying Roy 
McCulloch. Roy McCulloch respected my 
position too much while I was under his 
father's roof ever to ask me to marry him ! " 

The old man stood still and shook a 
tremulous staff at the girl. " Ah ! " he 
quavered, " you must not try to deceive an 
old dog — yes, an old dog ! There has been 
love-making going on. I have watched. 
You thought me deep in Yirgil — and Virgil, 
young lady, is the finest of all poets ; that 
I will ever uphold. But, because of the 
Mantuan, the father's eyes were not blind 
nor his ears deaf. There was love-making 
goiii^ on — with young Laird Lowran, with 
that softish lout, Jock Fairies, and in especial 
with Roy McCulloch. Moreover, did he not 
always come the latest, bide the longest, and 
did you not always see him to the gate ? Ah, 
xVdora ! the old man has not been so short- 
sighted as you gave him credit for." 

Thus the Dominie went maundering on, 
Adora holding him by the hand, drowned in 
the bitterness of her own thoughts, yet ever 
and anon rebuking herself for her irritation 
at her father's folly, till the forlorn pair 
came to the March Dyke of Barnbarroch. 
It was, even in daylight, a strange wild place 
-a dip between two boulder-strewn moors, 
the heather growing breast-high among the 
stones, one jagged pinnacle of rocks looking 
down like a watchman over a conventicle, 
and beneath the white thread of the mountain- 
road whimpling from verge to verge like a 
flicked whip-lash. 

The gate, dragged from its hinges, prob- 
ably by some of the mischievous spirits 
among the rout which that morning had 
poured up towards the House of Muir, lay 
broadside across a heap of stones, the debri > of 
some rough road -making operation, long ago 
interrupted and never again proceeded with. 

Cross-legged upon this, a boy sat sobbing 
bitterly — a boy in a man's coat, three or four 
inches too big for him every way. He wore 
a ragged pair of breeches, but his legs and 
feet were bare. A recent tear . or wound 
showed an irregular red edge across one 

brown and freckled calf. As the two pilgrims 
approached, the boy alternately staunched 
the bleeding, and wiped his wet eyes with a 
large blue Kilmarnock bonnet, the result of 
the double operation fairly passing the power 
of pen to describe. At first Adoi'a did not 
notice him. She was immersed in her own 
heart-bitterness. It was the old schoolmaster, 
with the instinct of a lifetime where youth 
was concerned, who observed the boy. He 
was certainly in trouble ; probably, therefore, 
a culprit. 

He turned about stiffly, so that he might 
face the seated figure, pointing with his stick 
to the wound. 

" Here, boy," he said authoritatively, " stop 
crying ! And tell me who did that ! " 

The boy lifted his tear-stained face, and 
then, even through the streaking and the 
swelling about the eyes, his identity could 
not be hid. 

" What, Daid McRobb ! " cried Adora, for 
the moment forgetting that for her there were 
no more roll-calls while the world should 
last. " What are you doing here at this hour 
-.and like that ? " 

And, surely enough, Daid McRobb it was 
who presently stood up shamefacedly enough, 
trying to conceal the hurt on his calf with 
his broad bonnet. Finding himself before 
the Dominie, the boy endeavoured to stop 
sobbing, with this of success that he gave 
himself hiccough instead. But, curiously 
enough, the result was in no way comic. 

" Why are you not at school ? " began the 
old Dominie in his flogging voice. 

" Father ! " said Adora, touching him with 
her elbow. 

"Ah! I forgot," said the old man. "I 
mean, what are you doing there with that — 
that wound on your leg ? " 

"Oh, Uiatl It's Hocht," said Daid, with 
a gasp, " nocht ava. I never noticed it. I 
think I fell on the edge of my tin can." 
His eye having fallen upon this last, perhaps 
suggested the explanation. 

But the old Dominie had his method. 

" Answer my question, boy 1 " he said 
sternly, with his stick in the air — " this 
minute ! Who did it ? " 

" D'ye think I was greetin' for that ? " 
cried Daid indignantly. "Man, I wad tak 
that three times i' the day and never whinge. 
It's for what they hae dune to him ! " 

" To your father ? " said Adora, instantly 
forgetting her ow^n sorrow in sympathy with 
another. " Why, what has happened to 
your father ? " 

'' My jaither r' 



Voice of human creature never expressed 
more of contempt and bitterness- than did 
that of Daid McRobb in these three syllables. 

" Greet for my faither ? " he repeated. 
" He micht cut me into bittocks and throw 
me into the water for gedbait, but he couldna 
gar me greet ! " 

*' But you have been with his dinner," 
said Adora, pointing to the can. 

" ()\v aye, he's my faither," said Daid 
simply for all explanation ; " Tm no denyin' 

He looked about him as lie spoke, and 
rubbed the wounded* calf surreptitiously on 
the ragged moleskin fringes which dangled 
about his other knee. 

" Then why are you crying ? " said Adora 
more gently. " Tell me." 

At the word, as if a spring had been 
touched, Daid the Deil raised himself from 
his lair of stones, his streaked face stained 
with blood, his bonnet in his hand, his rags 
flying in the moderate wind of September, 
and stretching out a hand towards St. Cuth- 
bertstown, with a gesture which no tragedian 
in the world could copy, he exclaimed : 
"Greetiu', is it ? I'll tell ye. It's for him 
I am greetin'. For him — for Roy McCulloch, 
the best lad that ever drew breath in this 
warl', the best freend, the only freend that 
puir Daid McRobb ever had ! And they 
hae gaoled him for what he never did. They 
hae ta'en him awa'. And it's my faut ! 
Oh, it's a' my faut!" 

And standing there before them, Daid the 
Deil broke into a wild, irregular wail, 
ancient, autochthonal, not to be heard 
among honest folk, the keening of the cave- 
women, the rude aboriginal chaunt which 
saluted the sun-god when the blood of the 
sacrifice dripped redder under his first ray, 
falling from the tribal altar. 

The boy, at the very apex of nis passion, 
stopped dead. Some sound unheard by the 
others had startled him. He paused, 
suddenly stricken stiff in the attitude of 

"Coming !" he cried suddenly, and, seizing 
his can, made off at a run in the direction 
of the high sentinel stone which overlooked 
the dell.' 



B'rom the Marches of Barnbarroch the road 
lay across a plain stretch of moorland, now 
spreading clear and crisp beneath the Sep- 

tember sun. The heather was growing a 
little rusty everywhere, but the bracken, 
cliance stricken by an untimeous frost, had 
turned and now withered in patches, many- 
coloured in the sunshine — orange and russet 
and cardinal red. 

After losing sight of Daid, Adora and her 
father essayed this long open crossing, the 
old man growing more soddenly weary at each 
step, and, as he rested on this stone and on 
that by the wayside, continuing to dilate on 
his daughter's ingratitude and lack of con- 
sideration for him. At last they reached, 
greatly to Adora's relief, the head of the long 
Glen of Pluckamin, the uncommon name of 
wdiich started her father on a learned dis- 
quisition, thus, for the moment, taking his 
thoughts oft' herself and her shortcomings. 

" Pluckamin — Pluckamin ! " he began. 
" Ah ! there's marrow in that — aye, marrow 
and fatness. Those who care for nought 
but how to put the most spoonfuls of por- 
ridge into them, may, indeed, see nothing in 
Pluckamin but matter for laughter. The 
thorns crackle bravely under the pot ! But 
to the learned and serious eye, the whole of 
the Covenant, count and tale, is unveiled. 
" Clachan Pluck "—the heart of the Faithful 
Country, the heart of Galloway. Even as 
the hub is the centre of the wheel, so was it 
about Clachanpluck that the assemblages of 
all the faithful folk gathered ! Griersons in 
Bargatton, Kerrs in Gullenoch, Dicksons in 
Crocketford ; but the best of all — the 
Heart of the Heart — were the McMinns of 
Pluckamin ! All scattered now. The New 
World across the water holds them and their 
name. The ploughshare is passed over their 
pleasant sites. Scarce a trace remains of 
the walls. Only a greener line here and 
there, seen when the sun lies low in the west, 
is left to mark the rigs that were turned 
when the hands of the martyrs held the 
plough. But such is our life — we pass and 
are not. The Jacob — the Supplanter cometh 
in our place. He sits in the shade of our 
pleasant bowers. He eateth of the vines 
which our hands have planted, and crieth 
'Aha! Aha!'" 

Grateful for the momentary respite, Adora 
let lier fatlier ramble on thus. The rugged 
fell of the moorland, shaggy as an undipped 
garron, yet, in spite of infinite diversity of 
heather and rocks, presenting no consider- 
able elevation to the eye, broke down sud- 
denly. The bare hill-track, crossed with 
slaty edges every half-dozen yards, washed 

"'Your life— your life!' shrieked the old woman. 'Give him back to me!' 



clean as scraped bone by the thunder rains, 
changed all at once into a woodland glade, 
with birches gracefully light all about. 

Down this track, where it began to skirt 
the policies of Lowran, Adora was guiding 
her father, w^ho was still meditating on the 
pa^t greatness of Clachanpluck and Plucka- 
niin, when, at a turn of the path, she came 
suddenly upon a pair of women, stern of 
aspect as accusing spirits. Both were 
wrapped in black, and the head of the elder 
was bare, while the shorter and younger of 
the two had a shawl drawn about her head. 

Adora knew then> for Sidney Latimer's 
mother and her unfailing companion Purs- 
lane. The women had been ascending 
slowly, as if the steep slope, which led out 
upon the face of the moor, had somewhat 
tried their powers. But at the sight of 
Adora and her father they halted, as- 

Then Mrs. Latimer advanced a few steps, 
and leaning forward as if she were about 
to spring upon Adora, cried in a loud voice : 
" Where is he ? Tell me —and I will for- 
give all ! " 

Adora stood aghast, not knowing what to 
answer. She comprehended that the Lady 
of Lowran had come out to seek her son 
— the son for causing whose death Eoy 
McCuUoch had been seized with rude shout- 
ings by the ignorant rabble. But Adora did 
not understand that she herself could be 
accused of having had anything to do with 
the matter. However, she had to do hourly 
with one whom God had touched ; and what- 
ever the woman said, she was resolved to 
be patient with the grief - stricken. She 
answered gently. 

" Madam," she said, " I do not know where 
your son is. It is many days since my 
father and I saw him. I am sorry; — I would 
give my life if all were happily ended." 

'' Your life — your life ! " shrieked the 
old woman, gaunt of cheek and wild of 
aspect, lifting up her clenched hand fran- 
tically above her head, as if in act to strike. 
"HIS life, say rather! Give him back to 
me — I beseech you ! Ah ! I never did harm 
to you or yours all my life— why should you 
come into mine to blight it? Give him 
back to me, I say ! Why are you so 
cruel ? " 

^* My Lady of Lowran " began Adora, 

going a little nearer as if to calm hei\ 

" I am not ' my Lady of Lowran I ' " she 
cried, thrusting her hand from her as if to 
push away something abominal)le. " I am 
only a poor old woman seeking her only son 

—her only son. Ah, how I loved him ! 
And you have taken him — you have be- 
witched him. Ever since he saw you, he 
has never been the same boy to me. Yes, I 
noticed the difference that first night when 
he came home — to me— home frorii — from 
— from your den. Did I not say so, even 
then, Purslane, in my despite he would seek 
after the Strange Woman ? She held him 
in spite of my prayers. She holds him still. 
Look how she gloats over the ruin she has 
made. But God will judge ! He is a just 
God, madam. He will judge 'twixt the 
right and the wrong — between you and me 
— my lady ! Give me my son, for the last 
time I bid you ! I order you to give me up 
my only son ! " 

Less agitated, though no less bitter at 
heart, Purslane had been endeavouring to 
moderate the fierceness of her mistress's 
vehemence. Now she succeeded to this 
extent that Adora, who stood trembling 
before them, not with guilt or fear, but with 
a new pitifulness, managed to get in the 
first words of her answer. 

" Listen," she said briefly, " I have a right 
to be heard. I am a young girl, as you 
were before you were married. I am a 
human being. I have a right to defend 
myself. I have never sought your son. I 
have never seen him since the day, many 
months ago, when I told him that he must 
not come to my father's house while I was 
.there. He has kept his word, and I mine 
also. It is true that, through no fault of 
mine, I found myself cast out of the only 
home I have ever known. Shelter was 
offered to us by a good friend. We accepted 
it. It was the choice of the destitute. We 
had nowhere else to go. That, again, by no 
fault of ours is at an end. We go forth, my 
father and I, with no more than we carry, 
but at least with our hearts clean of any 
shame towards you or your son ! " 

But Mrs. Latimer was not to be appeased. 
While Adora w^as speaking. Purslane had 
been able to restrain her. But now she 
broke out afresh. 

" No ! " she cried, " you cannot cozen me, 
madam, with your lies ! I am a woman and 
know you. You tricked my boy. You 
drew him on till you had him in your toils, 
then you pretended to cast him off as you 
cast off that young booby whom your 
paramour murdered at his own doorstep. 
And now you have been the death of my 
son. I say not with your own hands— but 
— he has come to his death among you. Ah ! 
that ever a Latimer of Lowran should have 



evened himself to a beggar wench ! I said 
from the first that ill would come of it. I 
warned him of going to seek the company 
of a girl without family, without name " 

So far the old Dominie had listened in a 
kind of daze. He was physically wearied to 
exhaustion. The excitements of the day 
had set his brain wandering. The road- 
fatigue, in spite of his staff and his daughter's 
arm to lean upon, had left him in a semi- 
comatose state. But at the last w^ords of the 
Lady of Lowran he seemed suddenly to 

The cowered decrepit ex-drunkard seemed 
to become a new man. He actually erected 
himself, so that, in the plain sight of all, a 
cubit was added to his stature. 

" No ! " he cried, with a gesture of real 
dignity, " this my daughter is no beggar 
wench ! There is no disgrace in her family 
tree, save her connection with me. Mrs. 
Latimer, of Lowran, I have the honour to 
inform you that this young lady comes of as 
good and unstained a lineage as the best of 
your husband's house. And— if I may be 
allowed the discourtesy in the course of a 
genealogical discussion — she is of better 
stock than your own ! You have known 
my daughter only as Adora Gracie, the 
daughter of the schoolmaster of Lowran. 
I have to inform you that my name is 
Donald Balgracie, younger son of the late 
Archibald Balgracie of Balgracie, in the 
county of Midlothian, as you can ascertain 
by waiting to my brother, the present Laird. 
I have the honour, madam, of bidding you 
a very good day ! " 

And taking his hand from his daughter's 
arm, the old gentleman — gentleman once 
more and for ever — lifted his hat and swept 
the two women a ceremonious salutation of 

The Lady of liowran instinctively bowled, 
overcome and amazed. She remained with 
her hand pressed to her breast, her mouth a 
little open, looking after the pair as they 
took their way down the long sunlit Glen of 
Pluckamin, with the afternoon glow lying 
bright and warm and even upon everything. 

When they had vanished, the Lady of 
Lowran turned to Purslane, and the first 
words she uttered, stammering and amazed, 
w^ere these : " If that be true, Balgracie of 
Balgracie is dead without heirs. I saw^ the 
advertisement in yesterday's Observer. And 
these two do not know ! " 

The two women looked long at each other, 
reading even to the dividing asunder of soul 

and marrow. Then with one accord they 
turned and followed Adora Gracie with their 
eyes as she went down the leafy glade, 
supporting the painful steps of Donald 
Balgracie, drunken outcast — and proximate 
landowner. But if there was any thought 
common to both their hearts, they gave it 
no expression in words. 



There are few hearts sadder than that of a 
brave woman who, after a long struggle, 
finds that she is reaching the limits of her 
courage. And it was thus that Adora 
Gracie felt as she led her father away from 
the interview with the Lady of Lowran. 
She had given little attention and no concern 
to what her father had said to Mrs. T^atimer 
about his birth and position. From her 
childhood she had been accustomed to such 
outbursts, though never, it is true, delivered 
with such assurance and detail. But at a 
certain stage of his failing, high birth and 
noble connections formed a maudhn topic of 
her father's, particularly distasteful to his 

Lideed, the prospect before her was one 
to daunt the boldest woman. What to do, 
£}he knew not. To beg she was ashamed, 
and with her father to keep watch and ward 
over, even honest "digging" of any kind 
seemed out of the question. She dared not 
leave him a moment alone. Adora felt that 
she could not go through Lowran. She 
dreaded the faces at the windows — ugly, 
curious, sneering, hateful faces. She could 
not bear to pass the schoolhouse, where Hard- 
hills's "stickit" nephew had already been in- 
stalled. The sight of the bairns at marbles 
in the school playground would have been 
agony to her. A skipping-rope, she thought, 
would have broken her heart. She turned 
into the Loop Road, the byway through 
the pohcies of Lowran, along which, on 
the niglit of his first apprehension, Roy 
McCulloch had conducted her home. As 
she passed between the bushes, strange 
thoughts darted like lightning through her 

All, the byways of fife! Ill and good 
alike lurk in them. Who amongst us, straying 
down some sohtary lane, idle of thought, 
empty of intention, has not come suddenly 
upon that which has changed all our life ? 
For good, sometimes ; for evil, perhaps 
oftener^ teaching the wisdom of the double- 



barrelled maxim : " Be not idle when alone ; 
nor alone when idle." 

Yet sometimes in the uncharted byways 
good sprites lurk. For even now, when 
Adora's way was most desolate, her fiitnre 
to the eye of sense most hopeless, such a 
one appeared, as unexpected to the sight as 
the Queen of the Fairies a-swing upon the 
topmost petal of a rose-bush. 

Only this Fairy Qneen had silvery hair 
with blonde lights in it, and for a magic 
wand carried knitting-needles of clicking 
steel, from which not even the most poignant 
emotion caused her t« drop a stitch. It was 
Aline McQuhirr, waiting for them to pass 
that way. She had heard of the terrible 
events at House of Muir. Indeed, her 
brother liad just come in, fnrious with anger 
at the treatment which the mob had dealt 
out to Roy and his father — *' bound like 
brute beasts and thrown into a cart bottom," 
had been his report. 

So Aline the gentle, knowing in her 
heart that House of Muir would be no 
abiding-place for Adoraand her father, came 
to compel what had been formerly refused, 
both on account of the smallness of her 
accommodation and because of the jealousy 
of her brother Adam's wife at the farm. 

This time, however. Aline would take no 
refusal. She was armed in advance against 
every objection. 

" There are two rooms and a garret for 
three folk," she said, "and ye can sleep 
bravely in my broad bed, lassie. Ye are 
jimp and sma'. And as for Flora up at the 
farm - nineteen months o' clarty byres and a 
rousing bairn to suckle hae learned lier that 
she didna mairry Adam McQuhirr only to sit 
in a ben-room, arrayed like Solomon in a' his 
glory, surrounded wi' cheena ornaments ! " 

So it befell that, as with the children of 
the righteous, so with the child of tl)e 
drunken schoolmaster, Adora found herself 
once more not forsaken, and without necessity 
to beg her bread. Yet neither here nor 
elsewhere would she eat the bread of the 
idle. In the cothouse of Gairie there was 
a spinning-wheel of Aline's, and Adora was 
a past mistress of the art. So the two women 
made a compact. 

As much as anything else, what Adora 
needed was time to bethink herself. Her 
father's boast of ancestry had indeed passed 
over her as the idle wind. That was less 
than nothing. But there was Roy McOullocli 
lying in St. Cuthbertstown gaol under the 
dark suspicion of having committed two 
murders for her sake I 

For her sake ! Yes, for her sake. True 
or untrue, she was smitten because of that. 
Why else was she an outcast, scarce daring 
to set foot outside the door, lest the same 
wild insensate mob she had seen at House 
of Muir should gatlier and sack the humble 
cottage of her gentlest hostess ? 

Roy McCulloch was innocent — of that she 
liad no doubt ; but what of Sharon ? The 
question had often troubled lier, and among 
other things she must think it out. During 
her evening walks with Roy's father, she had 
seen deeper than perhaps any had ever done 
before into the stern, silent, determined 
nature of the ex-smuggler. Tlie dark stain 
which the death of his wife had made across 
the man's life had not been washed away by 
the tide of events, nor yet had it faded out 
with the lapse of time. 

As she walked Aline's beautifully clean 
floor, back and forth, to the booming rhythm 
of her wheel, Adora went over every circum- 
stance in her mind ; and the more she thought, 
tlie greater was her perplexity. She saw that 
in helping Roy she might very w^ell send his 
father to the gallows. Carefully and dis- 
passionately, as a judge sums up, she laid 
the evidence, piece by piece, before her own 
mind. First, there was the calmness with 
which, having a son familiar with the law, 
Sharon McCulloch had awaited Roy's release. 
He had said nothing, done nothing, sought 
no advocate — simply waited. Was it un- 
natural calmness born of mere callousness, 
or did it spring from superior knowledge? 
Often in their wanderings Sharon McCulloch 
had fulminated against the lairds — Lowran, 
Barwhinnock, Olenkells. Their very names 
were anathema to him. She had seen the 
nmscles working on the grim old face as 
he spoke of them. As to Sandy Ewan, had 
he not said of him : " The spilling of any 
man's blood is doubtless a crime, and satis- 
faction for it is rightly demanded of the 
slayer ; but yet if the Lord of Justice hath 
an Angel of Death abroad on the earth, it is 
surely his duty to strike down such a man as 
Alexander Ewan " ? 

But from these speculations Adora's mind 
constantly returned to this — Roy McCulloch, 
at least, was certainly innocent ; and if his 
father had, indeed, shed blood, Sharon was 
not the man to let the innocent suffer in his 
place, or even along with him — still less if 
that man were his own son. 

Yet the more she thought, the more 
tangled became the skein. When she had 
turned matters over in her mind, Adora 
could not even arrive at any certainty 



that the I^aird of Lowran had really been 
murdered. A blood-stained coat, footsteps, 
a straying road-weary horse, a man mys- 
teriously gone from his place — these circum- 
stances, though demanding explanation, were 
no proof that actual murder had been done. 
Doubtless Sandy Ewan was another matter. 
His huge body, suddenly stricken inert — the 
devil that was in him for ever exorcised (so 
far as this world was concei'ned) — ^liad been 
found making a blot upon the fair God's 
morning, cumbering the Glebe Road. Only 
his iniquities remained after him — his plot- 
tings, his contrivings, his evil-doings, which 
were still the talk of the country and the 
scandal of the soberly inclined. No ; it was 
small wonder, to a thoughtful observer, that 
Sandy Ew^an had been found with that 
knife-haft right-angled above his breast- 
bone. The only wonder was that it had 
not happened years before. 

Aline left her guest much to herself. The 
Dominie, abundantly supplied with books 
from Aline's wall-press, needed to be cared 
for chiefly at morn and even. For at her 
flitting, the old maid had brought with her 
to the cothouse of Gairie the entire family 

'' Gin I want them, I'll come and borrow 
them, Ailie," her brother had said, "and 
that's no doom's likely. The Drumfern 
Observer is as muckle as I can manage - and 
even that is maistly twa-three weeks auld 
afore I get it through-hands ! " 

So the clear wise head of Adora Gracie, 
by circumstances and training far too old 
for such young shoulders, was filled with 
thoughts which came in thronging troops. 
Sidney Latimer had spoken of her as a girl 
who ought to have been a lawyer. In the 
commonest argument she was never satisfied 
till she had disentangled a fact and brought 
it into relation with every other which she 
held duly estabhshed. 

As to her present inquiry, material in 
plenty was at her disposal. For one thing, 
Adam McQuhirr was ^ a most determined 
gossip — his hospitable house a perennial 
centre of talk and toddy. Every morning 
he would " cry in," as he called it, to give 
Adora and his sister the benefit of. the 
" news " of the previous night. 

^' And ye may baud to that ! " he w^ould 
say of some new fact, naming the source of 
his information. " I threepit it doon the 
man's throat it was a lee ; but fegs ! he 
proved it ! " 

For, as was natural, the whole valley of 
the Dee and all the region between the 
Three Cairnsmuirs w^ere thick with rumours 
of every sort. Each day a new clue was dis- 
covered. There were men from Edinburgh. 
There were all the peace ofiicers in the 
Stewartry. There were amateurs also not a 
few. And there was a rumour, given for what 
it was worth, of a certain awful Bow^ Street 
runner, more to be dreaded than the mur- 
derer himself, who had been set upon the 
trail by the Lady of Lowran herself. 

Outwardly it was a peaceful life which the 
two women led at the Gairie Cottage in the 
time of the falling leaf. Kind Adam gave 
them their potatoes and peat-leading. In 
the idle summer weeks, " 'twixt hay and 
harvest," he set his men to chop wood and 
" clean up aboot the place." He sent them 
down his own household yarn to spin, which 
in days when an entire family wore cloth 
woven from the produce of its own flocks, 
was something considerable. His wife, he 
said, when explaining the matter, " was juist 
for a' the world a woman abandoned to 
curds-and-whey and the settin' o' a' mainner 
o' hens' eggs ! " 

Adora liad plenty of time on her hand for 
her task. She had been trained for this, 
and with the quiet and the assured peace of 
her new abode there came the need to do 
something to clear up the terrible double 
mystery which had overshadowed all the 
lives connected in any way with herb The 
girl felt her intellect sharpened for the sk. 
She knew, without ever actually thinking \ 
that she was cleverer than anyone in th : 
neighbourhood. Her mind followed a clue 
instinctively, coldly, for itself — even as she 
had read mathematics for pleasure in the old 
days at the schoolhouse, while her father w^as 
dissertating lengthily upon the beauties of 
ancient literature. 

So, like a machine, Adora set herself to 
the task of solving the problem, dispassion- 
ately, impersonally, with regulated speed and 
trained precision. What impelled her ? For 
no machine, however perfect, can do its work 
without a motive-power. Certainly no mere 
abstract love of justice, which is a passion 
with some. 

It might have been love — though if so, 
Adora herself would probably be the last to 
know it. Love ? Well, perhaps. But for 
whom ? 

Her position, in the complete retirement, 
half concealment, of the little house in the 
Gairie loaning, prevented her from following 
up any clues on the spot. She could not go 



to the Boreland or be seen on the Glebe 
Road ; she could not examine the spot where, 
as the spring night drew to morning, Sandy 
Ewan had gripped his last handful of earth 
and weeds. Nor yet to the great House of 
Lowran, guarded by Jonathan Grier, and 
inhabited by two women who hated her. 
Least of all could she venture near House of 
Muir, which remained in the hands of the 
lowest of the law's myrmidons, deputy- 
substitutes of the Sheriff's officer at St. 

No, it was clear to Adora Gracie that with 
no more than her own unaided individual 
judgment, she must clear and disentangle 
the true from the false, and find the way of 
deliverance for those who had been staunchly 
her friends in the day of her tribulation. 

So day after day she set herself, during 
the long hours of work, while Aline glided 
about like a noiseless fairy, never interrupting, 
never leaving her wholly alone, to trace out 
the course of events, line upon line, with the 
aids of tlie calendar, the district newspapers, 
and th o local road maps which Adam McQuhirr 
loaned her. She made few written notes, and 
those chiefly at the close of the day, when, as 
was her custom, she walked up into the fields 
behind the cottage to a little look-out knoll, 
where was a standing-stone, much used by 
cattle as a rubbing-post. This was her 

Here, her thoughts of the day became 
clarified, as the cool of the evening struck 
inward upon her bared head. All that she 
had thought during the working hours drew 
to a point. She knew not that she was 
beautiful as she stood there in the rich glow 
of evening. She would have taken it as an 
insult if anyone had told her so — or, at least, 
almost anyone. 

She was the thinker, the resolver, the only 
person in Lowran capable of setting apart 
once for all truth and the lie. That she had 
been born a girl seemed to Adora a pity. 
She could have done so much more as a man. 
Still, since that could not be helped, she 
must do the best she could, m spite of the 
drawbacks with which an unkind Nature had 
handicapped her. 

In those days of rule-of-thumb she re- 
constituted the crime according to the latest 
and most approved methods. She ruled 
nobody out. She rose with a mind perfectly 
open to conviction every morning. She 
even imagined Eoy, furious with anger 
against the author, actual or supposed, of his 
long imprisonment, hastening to face Sandy 
Ewan. She saw the quarrel, the slow 

provocation growing in the horse-face, the 
(|uick outbreak, the blow, the fatal return. 
She even imagined the cooler, more deliberate 
carrying out of Sharon's crusade against the 
lairds. All was possible to Adora — that is, as 
a working hypothesis, till she found a better. 

Strange w^ere the places her soul passed 
through, bound to a body quietly going to 
and fro before a spinning-wheel, during 
these weeks. But each day lessened the circle 
and made her action clearer. And that 
action must be — she saw it every day more 
clearly— to find Sidney Latimer. Dead or 
alive, she must find him. 

The problem of what had become of the 
young laird was sufficiently difficult. The 
wise folk of the law, both those of home 
produce and the imported, had failed utterly. 
His own friends were at a loss. The most 
active researches that had been carried on 
had proved ineffectual and were gradually 
being dropped. 

How, then, could a girl, practically confined 
to a two-roomed house and a scanty round 
of fields, succeed in that which so many had 
attempted in vain ? Well, for one thing, 
they had not Adora's equipment or Adora's 
knowledge, nor was it possible that they 
could possess these. 

It may seem a strange, almost an inhuman 
thing to say, yet it is true, that not in the 
years when she could scarce count her lovers 
upon her ten fingers, but in the course of 
this anxious solitary quest, did the girl find 
her soul. 

And the first resolve which solidified in 
her was a strange one. It was this. Upon 
a night after dark, when there was a moon — 
but not too brilliant a moon, she would go 
alone to the Marches of Barnbarroch. 


THE W^OLF'S cub. 

Aline knew that there was that on the mind 
of her little maid which preyed sorely upon 
its peace. But with the reticent wisdom of 
age she said little, proffering only the fine 
sympathy of silence, in which she was an 
adept. So when Adora, without explanation, 
informed her that she meant to bo absent a 
part of the evening upon business of im- 
portance. Aline the Gentle sighed, knowing 
it to be no affair of sweethearts' trysting, 
and offered her a pistol which had certainly 
not been loaded for a hundred years. Adora 
declined smilingly the doubtful advantage of 
this weapon. But she exhibited to the 



shuddering gaze of Aline the ornamented 
clasp-knife which Sharon the ex-smuggler 
had brought from Spain, and the very sight 
of which — open— as Aline said, "made you 
think of murder ! " 

Since, however, at that time, httle else 
was thought about over twenty parishes, the 
aspect of the weapon was less bloodthirsty 
than the old maid's exclamation might lead 
one to suppose. 

Still, Adora was armed. She knew how to 
defend herself. For Sharon had been at 
pains to teach her the Spanish art of the 
knife-play, as he himself had practised it for 
the favours of a certain Magarato girl of 
Astorga, in the open ground behind the huge 
gaunt cathedral of Leon. 

Adora's purpose was clear. She felt that 
the key of the whole mystery lay in or about 
the Marches of Barnbarroch. Very well ; she 
would go there, then, and at the time she 
had chosen. 

At last the suitable night arrived. It was 
just at the time when the moon emerges 
from the crescent, a misty night with the 
mild haze of autumn suspended at about the 
height of the tree-tops. There is no use in 
saying that Adora's heart did not beat, or 
that she was perfectly without fear. Being 
young and a woman, she was afraid, deadly 
afraid. But none the less she went — because 
it was a necessary part of her plan. 

As Adora approached the Marches of 
Barnbarroch, the moon was already low and 
the night serene, but the pearly haze ren- 
dered all outlines indistinct and the whole 
landscape full of soft mystery. But Adora's 
mind was bent upon one purpose, even as a 
steel trap is set. She saw only what she had 
gone forfch to look for, and she marched on 
with eager and unfaltering determination. 
She passed up the long Glen of Pluckamin, 
the moon struggling to sift through the tall 
trees and dappling sparsely the path with 
curded light. She paused for a moment at 
the top, in order to look abroad across the 
heathery moorland which ran ten miles to 
the west and north in long undulations, 
unbroken save for a few such bowl-like 
" cleuchs" as the Marches of Barnbarroch. 

Adora laid herself down on a flat rock 
overlooking the deep gully. She could see 
through the faintly frosted moonshine the 
shapes of the stones and the white wimple 
of the track as it descended and again 
ascended. But nothing moved. Every sprig 
of heatli, leaf of alder, and frond of bracken 
seemed carved in ebony, and a mystic peace 
brooded over all. 

Yet it was here, in this quiet dell, that 
Sidney Latimer's bloody coat had been found. 
Here the footmarks had been the thickest 
and the most deeply indented ; here (and the 
thought came to her with a kind of thrill) 
she and her father had met Daid McRobb 
with a flesh wound on his leg. Adora was 
near her purpose now. So, drawing a long 
breath, and with her hand on Sharon's 
Leonese knife, she rose to her feet and sent 
forth a long, far-reaching, musical cry. 

"Daid! Daid! Oh—li—h Daid! 

It was the call with which she had often 
witched the truants back to school when her 
father's severity had frightened them to the 
rocks and caves of the earth. As interpreted 
by the youth of Lowran, it meant at once 
forgiveness and protection. 

Quite unconsciously Adora stood beside 
the " standing - stane " which had been a 
Druid monument. She leaned her elbow 
on the grooved altar-top and waited. 

" Daid ! Daid ! Oh—h— h Daid ! " 

As girls that call the kine to the milking- 
bars in the quiet of eventide, so at the gate 
of the Unknown, Adora called. Thrice the 
cry went forth without an answer; but at the- 
fourth, hardly were the words out of her 
mouth, when, apparently descending from 
heaven, Daid tli£ Deil stood by the girl's 
side. He pressed his fingers to her lips, 
at the same time pulling her down among 
the loose boulders, where she had stood 
smothered to the waist in heather. 

" Hush / " he said ; " he's yonder ! " 

The two lay on the lip of the cup, which 
was cut through the centre from verge to 
verge by the six-foot dyke that gave the 
place its name of the Marches of Barn- 
barroch. They could see the gap in the 
dry stone wall — its shadow pale blue in the 
misty moonlight, and lengthening as the 
moon westered. Parts of the broken gate 
had been used for firew^ood, and what 
remained now lay in the gap, a mere heap of 
posts and bars, broken and splintered. 

But all was strangely still and peaceful 
under the moon. Nevertheless, Daid took 
the girl's hand to pull her away. But a 
vague expectation held her. Down by the 
heap of splinters in the darkest of the gap, 
it seemed to Adoi'a that something had 
moved. She shook off Daid's hand and 
looked long and eagerly. Perhaps — perhaps, 
after all, she had not come there for nothing. 

And as she looked, a small black thing, 
toad- like and S(juat, moved to the pile of 
wood, as if to collect some of the debris. 
So slow and deliberate were its movements 



that several times Adora thouglit she must 
have been mistaken. Bat no — the creature 
was nearer now than it had been wlien first 
she caught sight of it. She could hear Daid 
breathing supplications in her ear to come 

"For the love o' God, come ! " he said, 
invoking that wliich, most certainly, the 
poor outcast knew nothing about. 

Then, sudden as two hands that are clapped 
together, something happened which might 
w^ell have daunted the stoutest heart. 
Perhaps some flutter of woman's apparel, or 
some bright glintinaf of button or metal 
clasp advertised the presence of spies to the 
unknown thing crouched in the hollow 
beneath. At any rate, in a moment the 
creature's painful deliberation of movement 
was changed into a rapid crab-like rush 
straight up the rough hillside, the slaty 
stones clinking and spinning from under its 

With a hoarse cry, Daid thrust Adora 
behind him, snatching her Spanish knife as 
he did so. 

" Quick ! Doon wi' ye ! Doon the brae ! 
Rin ! For God's sake, rin ! " he cried. 

But he himself stood still, with Sharon's 
knife in his hand. 

And be it said that for once in her life 
Adora obeyed the male without question. 

It was not that she was afraid. Something 
horrid, deformed, troglodyte, about the 
creature raised a whirlwind of terror, wild 
and vague, in Adora's bosom. But Daid, to 
whom apparently the mystery was no mystery, 
remained behind, standing upon his defence. 

:{t :?! iH * * 

At the foot of the hill when Adora glanced 
round, she saw^ the boy, immovable, with 
Sharon's knife still in his hand. He was 
wiping it on his sleeve, but of his demon 
assailant nothing whatever was to be seen. 

Daid descended the hill tranquilly and 
with circumspection. Then he rendered 
Adora back her knife in silence. 

" And noo," he said, " what is't that ye 
are wan tin' wi' Daid ? " 

" David," began the girl softly, " in the 
gaol of St. Cuthbertstown there lie two 
innocent men. I want you to help me to 
get them out." 

The boy stood a moment uncertain, as if 
balancing something in his mind. 

" If I do help ye," he said, " ye will sweer 
never to tell what ye hae seen the nicht ? 
]S"or say ocht aboot this ? " 

He touched the wound \\\ his leg, still bare 
and unhealed. Adora promised, and the boy, 

reassured on that point, gradually unbending, 
gave the girl more of his confidence. 

" Aweel," lie said, with a more friendly 
accent, " tell me what it is ye want ! " 

There was nothing absolutely hostile in 
the boy's attitude. But it was evident that 
he was there in a posture of defence — Daid 
co7itra mundum ! And it behoved him to be 
wary even with an ancient friend like Adora. 
The girl resolved to give him her full 

" I want you to help me," she said, " to 
find out if Sidney Latimer is murdered or 
not, and who it was that killed Sandy Ewan." 

" Let the second bide," said Daid the 
Deii ; " they will never hang ony man for 
that. But I'll help ye wi' the findin' o' the 
Laird o' Lowran, gin he is to be fand aboon 
the earth or oot o' the water ! " 

The girl gazed, at tlie strange ragged out- 
cast who had once been her pupil in the law- 
abiding Presbyterially examined School of 

" What do you know about it ? " she said 
breathlessly. *'Do you think he is dead ? " 

" Them that are oot a' nicht on the face 
o' the muir, wi' nae bed but the heather, ken 
a heap o' things that fowk in booses o' biggit 
stane hear nocht aboot," replied the boy 

" But what do you know ? " demanded 
Adora. " If you have any care or love for 
Roy McCulloch or his father, tell me at 

" I hae nane o' either for his faither," 
said the boy sulkily ; " as for him, he may 
hang by the neck for ought that Daid cares ! " 

" Then you care as little for Roy 
McCulloch ? " she said diplomatically. " I 
thought you loved him." 

'• Loved him - aye ! maybe as well as you, 
for a' your talk ! " cried the boy, suddenly 
stung into hot anger. " Do you love him, 
as ye caa' it — you that's sae glib wi' siccan 
awsome words ? * Love,' indeed ! Wha 
speaks aboot lovin'' fowk till they're deid ! " 

This w^as coming somewhat near home, 
and Adora wished to change the venue. 

"You wish to save him, don't you ? " she 
said—" to help me to save him— that is ? " 

But Daid had seen too many of the 
hithers and thithers of life to be put off with 
mere verbal counters. 

" I'll tell you," he said, turning and facing 
her in the deep darks of Pluckamin Clench, 
into which the last struggling slants of the 
moonlight could hardly enter. " I'll tell ye, 
Adora Gracie, what ye aiblins dinna ken 
yoursel'. Aye, and what maybe ye'll no 

" ' For God's sake, riu ! ' ' 



thank me for telliii' ye. It's this — lasses 
diniia gang at mirk midnicht to the Mairches 
o' Barnbarroch, an' it be na for the sake o' 
them they love (as ye caa' it) wi' a' their 
hearts ! Noo, what yin is it ? Is it for the 
sake o' Laird Latimer, that's maybe deid an' 
buried, an' maybe no — or is it for Roy 
McCulloch, that rins a sair chance o' being 
hanged for murderin' a man he never laid 
hand upon ? " 

The boy, wh(j had spoken with extra- 
ordinary vehemence, unexpectedly seized 
Adora by the wrists, as if to compel her to 
answer. The girl, taken by surprise, tem- 
porised after the manner of women. 

" Why do you ask such foolish questions ? " 
she said, trying to shake herself loose from 
his grasp. 

" Aye, but are they foolish ? " demanded 
the boy, keeping his grip and thrusting his 
face nearer to hers. "They are just this^/ 
foolish, that if it be for the sake of Laird ' 
Latimer that ye cam' to Barnbarroch at this 
time o' nicht — then Eoy McCulloch: had 
better be hanged in peace in St. Cuthbert's 
gaol ! " 

" Why would it be better ? " said Adora, 
as the boy paused. 

" Aye, better for him than to gang on wi' 
a broken heart — to see you riding to the 
kirk as my Leddy o' Lowran ! " cried the 
boy, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight 
like those of a wolf cub — which indeed he 

And Adora Gracie, who feared not the 
face of man, quailed before him. 

relinquished the chase, for the boy turned 
away satisfied. 

" Mind, ye are no to come hereawa' again, 
or I'll no answer for't ! " he abjured his 
companion. " It michtna be canny." 

" But how about yourself, Daid ? " the 
girl said kindly. " Are you in no danger ? " 

" Danger ? Me ? " answered Daid, with 
marked surprised. " Aye, maybe — but nae 
mair than ordinary ! " 

"Then you will find out about Sidney 
Latimer, as you promised ? " she continued. 
" You will come to Aline McQuhirr's cottage, 
and bring me news of what you find out 
down by the Gate House of Cally ? " 

" I hae said I will, and I will," the boy 
answered steadily, " on the day after the 
morn. It will be in the gloamin' likely — 
gye and late. Ailie will be in her bed when 
I come. Ye can tell her what lee ye like ; 
but ye maun come doon to the White Yetts 
'■diO meet me." 
■ '^ " She trusts me," said Adora simply. " I 
can come and go when I will." 

" She has need," returned Daid. " It's no 
every lass that wad venture as far, wi' nae 
ither convoy than Daid the Deil." 

It was true ; Aline of the Silver Hair had, 
indeed, great confidence in her guest. But 
then the gracious silent perception of the old 
gentlewoman made it clear to her that any- 
thing of the nature of a common intrigue was 
wholly foreign to the nature of Adora Gracie. 
So, from the cottage at the loaning-end, 
Adora went and came unquestioned and un- 
reproved, at hours when even a roving 
ploughman, in the first rush of young blood, 
would scarce have ventured to be abroad. 


devil's work. 

The pair went down the Clench of Pluck- 
amin together. At intervals, as if to guard 
their rear from attack, the boy turned and 
listened keenly and with the most anxious 
suspicion. Adora listened, too, but she 
heard nothing save the hooting of the cue- 
owl, the chatter of discontented blackbirds 
squabbling on their perches in the pine 
thickets, together with that faint under- 
rustle of mystery which may be heard at 
night in every wood — the coming and going 
of beast and bird and creeping thing upon 
their errands, private and personal, under 
the friendly cover of the dark. 

But the particular creeping thing which 
had taken the brae at the March of Barn- 
barroch like a charging tiger seemed to have 

It was long past the set time for his 
return, and yet Daid the Deil had not ap- 
peared. Adora, knowing in what a secret 
hell of dangers and uncertainties it was the 
boy's lot to dwell, grew seriously alarmed for 
his safety. She had slipped out by the door 
of the little cothouse, and now stood at the 
gable-end near the peat-stack, under the full 
glow of the moon, now increased in light 
and favour, sailing high in the serene 

The night was large and gracious. The 
high tranquillity of a still autumn night 
held everything breathless. It was chillish, 
evidently making for frost towards the morn- 
ing, and occasionally a broad ash leaf, nipped 
at its base, came noiselessly balancing down. 

Never had the girl expected a lover as 
Adora did Daid's coming. What if she had 



sent liim to his death ? It was possible — 
nay, remembering the Marches of Barn- 
barroch, even something more than that. 

At last, about four in the morning, he 
came. But how ? Beaten and torn and 
stamped almost out of all image of hu- 
manity, Daid the Deil it was who crept out 
of some secret wild -beast lair into the clear 
moonlight and the homely smell of the fire- 
warmed hearths of men. 

And seeing him thus, come from doing 
her message, Adora, touched to the heart, 
suddenly wailed aloud. Then Aline, who, 
faithful to her word, had neither watched 
nor spied upon her guest, but only lain 
sleepless, threw a garment about her and 
sped out to her assistance. 

Between them they lifted the boy within 
and laid him on the bed from which Aline 
had just risen. There was, as always in the 
cottage, water hot by the "keeping coal" 
upon the fire. So, carefully and with sup- 
pressed sobs of pitifulness, the two women 
removed the saturated rags from about Daid's 
poor body, washed the wounds and bruises 
which they found there in abundance, 
softened the matted masses of his hair, and 
wrapped the boy in such luxury of white, 
lavender - scented linen as he had never 
imagined to be anywhere in the world. 

All tbe time he was conscious. His eyes 
followed them about as they went and came, 
but with a kind of desire, dumb and wistful, 
which Adora could not explain. Still they 
found upon him no deadly wound, nothing 
to account for the terrible exhaustion of the 

Yet he seemed somehow dazed — lying and 
gazing at them, dumb, helpless, pathetic. 
It was evident that, for the moment at least, 
he was beyond speech. For during all their 
tendance of him no sound had escaped his 
lips, except once or twice a low, inarticulate 
moan, as if forced from the depths of his 

On the other hand, his desire to drink was 
insatiable. Adora had already brought him 
two full jugs of water, cold from the well. 
It was Aline, however. Aline the gentle, 
who, lifting up his head to administer some 
cooling draught, made a terrible discovery. 

The hoy's tongue tvas gone — in its place a 
terrible ivound ! 

Then, both together, the two women broke 
down, crying bitterly and rocking to and fro, 
while Daid gazed mournfully at them without 
tears. Then Aline, recognising that this 

was more responsibility than they could 
undertake alone, resolved to go for assist- 
ance — much as they wished to keep secret 
the presence of Daid McKobb in the cot- 
house of the Gairie. 

The farmer came down instantly at the 
sound of his sister's voice underneath his 
window. And just as ready was he to saddle 
a horse from the 'stable that he might ride to 
Cairn Edward for the doctor. But before 
this was done, Daid had been removed to 
the garret of the little cothouse. Good- 
hearted Adam offered the hospitality of the 
Gairie ; but as half the parish made the 
farm-parlour a place of call, Aline declined, 
much to Adora's relief. Not only must the 
boy be nursed, but here was a third mystery 
to be solved. 

" Then if ye willna bring the laddie up to 
the Gairie, I will gie ye a hand to carry 
him up to your ain baulks," said Adam 
McQuhirr, to whose strong arms the trans- 
port of a boy like Daid, even up a crazy 
ladder, was a light and easy task. 

It was six of the morning when Dr. 
Erasmus Steven arrived at the Gairie — a 
wise, silent man, whose eyes had seen curious 
sights in their time, but whose tongue had 
never mentioned one of them — not even to 
his wife. W^hich is saying no little for a 
country practitioner in a country where, 
next to an overfuling Providence, the 
distributor of news is the greatest bearer of 

The tall doctor could hardly stand upright 
in the garret of Aline's cottage, but he went 
about his duties with that air of efficient 
gentleness which not palatial halls would 
have enhanced. 

Finally he motioned for the two women to 
go out — Aline, who had stood trembling, 
and Adora, who had been his helper, holding 
herself as sedate and composed as if she had 
done nothing but assist a surgeon all her 
life. Then, seeing Daid a little recovered, 
he got out his little sheaf of paper slips on 
which he was accustomed to write down his 
notes and prescriptions. 

" Do you hear me and understand what I 
say ? " he asked, looking the boy in the eyes, 
as the grey light of the forenoon fell upon 
him on the little bed beneath the skylight in 
Aline's garret-room. 

Daid nodded. The dazed look left 
momentarily his eyes. 

" Then," said the doctor, " write me the 
name of the man who did this, on the 
sheet of paper I put before you. I am a 
magistrate. It is a dastardly affair, and, as 



soon as may be, we must get to the bottom 
of it." 

The expression on the face of the boy 
never changed as he listened. He took the 
pencil and wrote. With a glow of satis- 
faction on his impassive face, the doctor 
watched him. But this faded as he read 
the three words in Daid's laborious boyish 
script — 

" I DINNA KEN ! " 

Dr. Erasmus paused, and frowned as when 
he had an awkward case to diagnose. He 
pushed the paper 15ack again into Daid's 
hands, saying : " Tut, tut ! this will never do 
— such a thing could never have taken place 
without your being aware of the personality 
of the perpetrator. And consider the im- 
portance of the information. It might have 
been the murderer of the late Mr. Ewan and 
of Mr. Sidney Latimer into whose hands 
you have fallen. Try and recollect yourself. 
I ask it in the interests of justice." 

Again certain words were painfully traced 
out — 


The doctor, thinking that perhaps he 
had been over-hasty, or that he had made 
his appeal in a manner too official, tried 

" But, my boy, you do not realise what 
this means to all of us! It may be your 
good fortune to put the law on the track of 
a dangerous murderer. Nay, my poor lad, 
there is not the shghtest doubt that a very 
Berious attempt to murder has been com- 
mitted on your own person. I have seen 
many a one succumb to injuries far less 
serious than yours." 

The boy lay looking up at Dr. Erasmus 
Steven as if dazed by the flow of words. 
He made no attempt to take the pencil and 
paper again. 

The doctor decided to make a last attempt, 
though he saw that his patient's strength 
was failing. 

" You are prevented from speaking in- 
deed," he said, " but your eyesight is merci- 
fully preserved to you. You have the 
hearing of your ears. Tell me how this 
terrible mutilation happened. Add, if possi- 
ble, a brief description of your assailant. It 
may help us to the arrest of the culprit, and 
even lead to consequences more import^mt 
still. You will certainly be rewarded ! " 

As if driven to it against his will, the boy 
seized the pencil and wrote long. The 
doctor watched him eagerly. At last he fell 
back exhausted. The pencil rolled on the 

floor. His eyes closed. Dr. Erasmus Steven 
almost shook with excitement. What if he, 
a plain country practitioner, should have 
within his grasp the heart of the mystery 
which had so long perplexed his ablest legal 

He read the words which the boy had 
written, clearly enough expressed with his 
own official pencil. 


NOCHT — Mind your ain business ! " 

With unabated good-humour Dr. Erasmus 
Steven retired defeated. He could not 
break down the boy's reserve, but he had 
sufficient contempt for the methods of the 
Fiscal not to report the case at St. Cuthberts- 
town. If there were anything to be learned, 
he would learn it first—he and not another. 
The W'omen, who had so strangely taken it 
into their heads to nurse the boy, might 
perhaps succeed where he had failed. But 
they did not know what they were under- 
taking. Injuries of that kind were slow and 
difficult to heal. But there would be time 
enough to find out by whom, and for what 
cause, so cruel a mutilation had been inflicted 
upon a boy. Dr. Steven knew that Time is 
the best detective in the world, and that 
Woman is an excellent second. 

So in the " upstairs " of the little but-and- 
ben at the Gairie loan-end abode Adora's 
messenger, the secret of his disaster grimly 
shut up within his own heart. His eyes, 
indeed, followed every motion wistfully, 
especially when he and Adora were alone 
together. Sometimes when he heard the 
voice of the Dominie below, he would shrink 
and for the moment appear visibly uneasy. 
Perhaps he was remembering the nights 
when Adora used to let him sleep about the 
peathouse at the back of the school in 
Lowran, and when the Dominie, less tender- 
hearted, came looking for him with an ash- 

One day, of his own accord, Daid signified 
a desire for a pencil and paper. By this 
time he was getting a little stronger, and 
could even be left occasionally to himself for 
an hour or two. These were the words 
which he wrote upon the paper — 

" When is he to be tried ? " 

"In Drumfern, at the Spring Circuit," 
answered Adora instantly. 

Daid fell back on his pillow, and though 
he only lifted his eyes to the green bubble 
on Aline's skylight, there was a prayer in 
them that reached infinitely higher. 

' I dinna ken ! ' " 



Then he wrote — 

" Leave me the pencil, if ye please ! " 

So, his request granted, all that morning 
at intervals Daid wrote painfully, word by 
word, with long rests between the sentences. 
Adora would come on him again and again 
with his eyes closed, either deep in thought 
or recovering after exhaustion. 

At last, about noon, Daid the Deil with a 
weak hand delivered his completed message 
to Adora. 

"Laird Latimer is no beid. They 


— David McRobb." 

It was an important— an all-important 
communication, even though it revealed 
nothing as to the cause of Daid's own mis- 
fortune. In an instant much that had been 
dark was clear to Adora Gracie, though not 
all. Sidney Latimer's escape from death she 
had been in a manner prepared for, though 
why he continued silent when innocent men 
were in danger of their lives had not pre- 
viously been explained. 

"They pressed him," Daid had said. 
That in itself was likely enough. Pressing 
parties made the tour of the coast of Solway, 
and one likely young fellow was as liable as 
another to be knocked on the head and 
hurried aboard ship, in these times when 
recruits were so hard to get for His Majesty's 
marine, presently at war both with the Old 
World and the New. 

The truth of the second part of the mes- 
sage was more difficult for Adora to accept. 
If a young man could not have all that he 
wanted, it was surely weak to run away ; 
and, at any rate, he ought to have let his 
mother know where he was. Still, Sidney 
Latimer had never been like other young 
men of his class or station. He was a spoilt 
child. Even as a man Adora recalled his 
sulks in the matter of Strong Mac, and her 
final rebuke to him. 

It was quite possible, she thought, that 
such a man might take himself off to the 
wars without a word said to anyone. It was 
possible he might even think himself in some 
way quits with Adora by so doing. Young 

men were apt to take curious things into 
their heads, of which she was not without 
her experiences. 

Yet how serious might not such childish- 
ness turn out to be in its consequences ! It 
was even possible that, pressed for His 
Majesty's marine, and escaping by chance, 
or by some revelation of his quality, Sidney 
Latimer had taken service with the land 
forces either in Spain or iVmerica. 

Nay, was there not a certain friend of his 
of whom he had spoken, an officer in the 
army of my Lord Wellington, presently 
under arms in the Peninsula. Doubtless he 
would make his way thither. As to this 
there was no certainty. Yet if Adora could 
not get word to Sidney Latimer in time, Roy 
McCuUoch and his father would almost 
certainly be hanged for the murder of a 
living man. 

This, then, was the problem which Adora 
Gracie had to solve. Sidney Latimer was 
alive. But if he did not appear at the trial 
of the McCullochs at the Drumfern Sessions, 
innocent blood would be spilt. Though she 
tried more than once, Daid could give her 
no information as to the whereabouts of the 
missing man. She did not know the name 
of his friend in the army, nor yet with any 
certainty whether he was still with my Lord 
Wellington. A letter — a messenger ? But 
how could she depend on that letter or 
messenger being in time, or discovering 
Sidney Latimer in the constantly changing 
camps of the British army, then fighting a 
succession of the hardest contested battles of 
the Spanish campaign. 

Then as to a messenger, whom could she 
trust to go ? 

Swift as a flash the solution came to Adora, 
as all great thoughts come. 

She must go herself to Spain — to the 
armies. At whatever risk, at whatever cost, 
go she must. It was the sole means of pre- 
serving the McCullochs and of preventing 
Sidney Latimer from being the cause, through 
his own sullen tempers, of the death of two 
innocent men. 

In sum, there seemed to Adora nothing 
for it but this — she herself must go to Spain 
and bring back Sidney Latimer to the 
Drumfern Sessions. No matter what people 
said, she must seek him — she must find him. 

No matter (and this was the most serious 
reflection of all to Adora Gracie), no matter 
what Sidney Latimer himself might think, 
she must bring him back to do his duty. 

i^To he continued.) 


By W. T. Stead.* 


'B had the good hick to see the 
old mother of the Eothschilds," 
wrote Henry Greville in his 

journal when he visited the dark, dirty, 

squalid Ghetto of Frankfort in 1843. " The 

house she inhabits appears not a bit better 

than any of the others ; it is the same dark 

and decayed mansion. In this narrow, 

gloomy street and before this wretched 

tenement a small calkhe was standing, fitted 

up with blue silk, and a footman in blue 

livery was at the door. Presently the door 

opened, and the old 

woman was seen 

descending a dark, 

narrow staircase, 

supported by her 

granddaughter, the 

Baroness Charles 

Rothschild. A more 

curious and striking 

contrast I never saw 

than the dress of the 

ladies, their equipages 

and liveries, with the 

dilapidated locality in 

which the old woman 

persists in remaining. 

The family allow her 

£4,000 a year, and 

they say she never in 

her life has been 

out of Frankfort, 

and never inhabited 

any other house than this, in which she is 

resolved to die." f 

At the time when the inveterate gossiper 

jotted down this entry in his entertaining 

diary the old mother of the Rothschilds was 

ninety-four years old, having spent nearly a 

century in the Ghetto in which she had been 

born, and in which, down to the advent of 

t This mother in Israel died three years later. When 
asked to quit the Judengasse, she was wont to reply : 
'• Here I have seen my sons grow rich and powerful ; 
and as I have not grown conceited in my old age, 1 will 
leave them their good fortune, which woidd certainly 
forsake them were I from pride to abandon my humble 

* Copyright, 1903, by the Curtis Publishing Company, 
in the United States of America. 


the French Revolution, she and all her race 
had been confined, the street being closed 
with gates at each end. A mother in Israel 
indeed was Madame Mayer Amschel, or 
Madame Bauer, as some called her, one not 
unworthy to have sung the glad song of 
Hannah over the youthful Samuel. How 
the familiar strains must have gladdened the 
heart of the young mother in the foul- 
smelling Judengasse, as she sat with the boy 
on her knees ! ' ' The Lord maketh poor, and 
maketh rich ; He bringeth low, and lif teth 
up. He raiseth up 
the poor out of the 
dust, and lifteth up 
the beggar from the 
dunghill, to set them 
among princes, and to 
make them inherit the 
throne of glory." She 
lived to see the 
prophecy literally ful- 
filled. In her lifetime 
her sons and her sons' 
sons arose to call her 
blessed. When her 
husband died, he left 
his sons as his last 
directions : (1) to 
remain ever faithful 
to the Law of Moses ; 
(2) To be ever united ; 
and (3) To undertake 
nothing without con- 
sulting their mother. From the gloomy 
Frankfort Ghetto her descendants went forth 
to found a dynasty which for a hundred 
years stood pre-eminent among the monarchs 
of finance. 

The Rothschilds are no longer the greatest 
of the money kings of the world. But 
their firm is ^iiW primus inter pares, s,nd their 
present position, conjoined with their famous 
traditions, entitles them to the place of 
lionour in any gathering of the financial 
sovereigns of our time. 

The Origin of the Rothschild Dynasty. 

It is not difficult to trace the origin of the 
new dynasty. Before the middle of the 




Photo by} 

[P. F)'ith & Co., Beigate. 


The house is indicated by an asterisk. 


eighteenth century there were no Rothschilds known to fame. 
The father of the first Rothschild was a Jewish merchant of 
the name of Amschel, or, according to others, Mayer Baner. 
When the child was born, he so little discerned the true bent 
of his genius that he purposed to dedicate him 
to the service of 
the Synagogue. 
Young Bauer was 
to be a rabbi 
learned in the law, 
as young Cecil 
Rhodes in later 
years was to be set 
apart in his youth, 
for the ministry of 
the Church of 
England. But the 
destiny of both was 
not in the keeping 
of their fathers. It 
was the fate of 
young Bauer not to 
write commentaries 
on the Book of the 

Law, but to afford the world the most conspicuous confirmation of the accuracy of the 
prediction which declared : " Thou slialt lend unto many nations, but thou shalt not 
borrow." Instead of becoming a rabbi, the lad went into business and started his career 
as a money-lender at the sign of the Red Shield in the Frankfort Judengasse. Money- 
lenders in those days, like publicans in our day, advertised their business by signboards 
on which were painted emblems which had probably as little significance as the Red Lions 
and the Blue Boars under which British innkeepers supply their customers with ale and 
spirits. Bauer's sign was a Red Shield — in German, Rothschild. Under that sign he 
prospered exceedingly. After a time he discarded the family name of Bauer and adopted 
the less homely patronymic which he borrowed from his signboard. Exit Bauer, with its 
associations of peasant life. Enter Rothschild, who was to sit among princes and to 
inherit the throne of glory. 

The first Rothschild from a mere money-lender of the Judengasse became known as 
a banker of some culture. If money-making was his business, numismatics were his recrea- 
tion, the hobby of his leisure moments. It was his hobby that made him the associate 
of princes and enabled him to plant his foot on the first round of the ladder on which 
his descendants were to ascend so high. William, the ninth Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel, 
shared his passion for the collecting of curious coins. He made the banker's acquaintance, 
and found him interesting and useful in other fields. Rothschild was diligent in business, 
Rothschild was honest. So, to make a long story short, he became in the first year of 
last century the agent of the Landgrave. The next year, in 1802, he made his debut 
on the international stage by raising a loan — a small affair, but his first — to the 
Danish Government, wliose capital had been in the hands of the British Government 
the previous year. It was the year of the Peace of Amiens. Four years later, when 
Napoleon, baffled in his designs for the invasion of England, swept like a devastating 
flood across the Rhine to the Prussian capital, Rothschild's Landgrave fled in haste from 
before the invader. But before he w^ent, he entrusted all his silver and other treasures 
to Rothschild, who at no small risk to his neck buried them in a corner of his garden, 
where they remained on deposit during the troublous years that followed Jena, and 
w^ere subsequently returned to their owner with five per cent, interest. 

Rothschild did not live to see the downfall of Napoleon. He died at Frankfort in 
September, 1812, when the French were beginning to experience the horrors of the 
retreat from Moscow. He left five sons and five daughters, who inherited no small share 
of their father's financial genius. As Alexander when he died divided his empire 
among his generals, so the House of Rothschild distributed Europe among its sons. 



Frankfort remained the seat of the family 
dynasty, but Rothschilds reigned at London, 
Paris, Yienna, and Naples. It must have 
been difficult in those days before railways 
were invented, and when the Continent was 
convulsed with war, for the family to meet 
in council at Frankfort. But the stage- 
coach and the diligence sufficed in those days, 
and the lack of telegraphs and telephones 
did not prevent the Rothschilds making their 
birthplace on the Main the financial capital 
of the world. The eldest son lived there, 
and there, in accordance with the will of the 
founder, all important consultations were 
held. The family has held together from 
that day to this, although Paris has succeeded 
Frankfort as the family centre. They have 
intermarried one with the other without 
impairing the race, and at this day the heirs 

Photo by'] 

[M Frith iXc Co., Reigate. 



of the original Rothschild hold together all 
around the world. It is a family dynasty 
with ramifications everywhere. In every 
capital a Rothschild has his finger upon the 
pulse of the world. 

The most famous of the Rothschilds was 
the third son, who received England as his 
appanage. He was born in 1777, and paid 
his first visit to Great Britain when, as 
a youth of twenty-three, with a hundred 
pounds in his pockets, he was sent to 
Manchester to buy cotton goods for his 
fatlier. In 1805 he wiis transferred to 
London, where he soon made his mark and 
found a rich wife in the daughter of Levi 
Cohen. Young Rothschild — he was then 
but eiglit-and-twenty — displayed an audacity 
and a nerve which made him first the terror 
and then the envy of his contemporaries. 
It was a time of war. England was engaged 
in a life-and-death struggle against Napoleon. 
Supreme on the seas, she was compelled to 
fight the Corsican on land chiefly by proxy. 
The Allies were only prevailed upon to 
continue the struggle by the judicious bottle- 
holding of the English Government, which 
granted subsidy after subsidy. As the chief 



weapon of England in land war was financial, 
the way was cleared for the ambition of the 
young German Jew. He arrived in London 
just before the death of Pitt, whose work he 
took up and continued in the world of finance. 

How Nathan Rothschild Financed 
A War. 

Nathan Meyer Rothschild played double 
or quits in a style which none of his suc- 
cessors would think of imitating. Satisfied 
that England held the winning cards in the 
great world-struggle, he backed England for 
all he was worth. W^en Wellington's drafts 
on the British Government came in from the 
Peninsula in 1810, and there was no money 
in the National Treasury to meet them, 
Rothschild took them up and renewed them 


from time to time until the hard-pressed 
Chancellor of the Exchequer could redeem 
them. Not for nothing, however, did 
Rothschild work. The bills taken up at 
heavy discount must be redeemed at par. 
When loans were issued, he had his share, 
sometimes the lion's share ; for the labourer 
is worthy of his hire, and he was true to the 
Mosaic precept which forbids muzzling the 
ox which treads out the corn. But although 
he made his profit, he rendered yeoman's 
service to John Bull. The clever and 
audacious Jew was a man of inexhaustible 
resource, of unfailing confidence. His 
services during the last ten years of the 
great Napoleonic war almost entitle him to 
rank as one of tlie Allied Powers. He would 
have made a great newspaper editor. He 
had the instinct for news, and the passion to 
acquire it ahead of all his contemporaries. 

His pigeons at the ports where his swift 
packets called with the latest news from the 
seat of war enabled him to make his pile 
before the market received a hint of what 
had happened. The Rothscliild family per- 
meated Europe. Its trusty agents were every- 
where, and all the information which they 
gathered was pooled for the profit of the 
new dynasty. 

The battle of Waterloo, which marked the 
final fall of Bonaparte, marked not less 
decisively the establishment of the new 
dynasty. Swift messengers had been 
despatched to Nathan Mayer Rothschild, 
apprising London of the reverse inflicted 
upon the Prussians at Ligny — news which 
would send stocks down. He then waited 
with intense anxiety for the issue of the 
battle which would send them rocketing 
upwards. He did not wait in vain. 

Mr. Leopold de Rothschild last April told 
a meeting of the Newspaper Press Fund 
what he declared was the accurate version of 
how the news of the victory came to his 
grandfather. That news came through the 
medium of a Dutch paper. Nathan Meyer 
Rothschild, who was a shipowner, instructed 
his captains always to bring him the latest 
newspapers when returning from abroad. 
One of these arrived with a newspaper 
announcing the victory of the Allies at 
Waterloo. Nathan Rothschild immediately 
conveyed the news to I^ord Liverpool. But 
the information was regarded with incredulity, 
because on the previous day intelligence had 
been received announcing the defeat of the 
British. Having thus got the exclusive 
news, he bought heavily stocks depressed to 
the lowest point by the news of Bliicher's 
defeat. Two days later he was able to sell 
at the top of the market, when the official 
news came of Wellington's victory. It was 
a great cowp, establishing the fortunes of the 
house on foundations so durable that after 
the lapse of a century the edifice stands firm. 
Some men would have rested upon their 
laurels. Nathan Meyer Rothschild was not 
of the resting kind. His prestige was un- 
paralleled. Every Government in Europe 
came cap in hand to the triumphant financier 
and besought him to accept the position of 
their financial agent. He consented, but on 
terms and within limitations. He would 
have nothing to do either with Spain or with 
the American States, and he insisted that 
the interest on all loans which he floated 
sliould be paid in pounds sterling at London. 
As the English owed the idea of the Bank 
of England to a Scotchman, they owed the 



stipulation which made London the financial 
centre of the Continent to a German Jew, 
who had been made an Austrian Baron 
in 1822. 

Nathan Meyer Eothschild died in 1836, 
twentj-one years after his great success. He 

used to say 
that he 
owed his 
to two 
m a X i m s : 

(1) Always 
strike a bar- 
gain with- 
out waiting 
to think it 
over, and 

(2) Never 
have any- 
thing to do 
with an un- 
lucky man. 



succeeds, Nathan Rothschild was succeeded 
by Lionel, and he in his turn was succeeded 
by the present head of the firm. Lord 
Eothschild. Lionel was chiefly famous 
because around him was fought the fiercely 
contested battle of Jewish disabilities. For 
eleven years he was elected and re-elected by 
the City of London as one of its representa- 
tives in the House of Commons, and for 
eleven years the Conservative prejudice 
against the Jews, combined with the theo- 
logical prejudice of the Bench of Bishops, 
succeeded in excluding him from Parliament. 
At last, in 1858, the barrier gave way, and 
Lionel Rothschild took his seat without 
having to swear allegiance on the faith of a 
Christian. His first vote, curiously enough, 
was given in opposition to Lord John 
Russell, who had been the weariless and 
persistent champion of his admission. He 
continued to be elected for the City till 
1874, when he was one of the victims of the 
Conservative reaction which placed Mr. 
Disraeh in power. On his death, in 1879, 
he was succeeded by the present Lord 
Rothschild, w^ho continues to carry on the 
business of the firm. 

The French Branch of the Family. 

The Paris house of Rothschild was founded 
by James or Jacob, the fifth son of the first 
Rothschild. In England the Rothschilds 
were Liberal down to the introduction of 

the Home Rule Bill. In France they were 
Conservative. They made their entry into 
the country with the Restoration. They 
were the financial agents of the Bourbons, 
and under Louis Philippe made great profit 
by the advances which they were able to 
make the builders of railways. When the 
pious Normans wished to cover England with 
cathedrals in the twelfth century, they 
borrowed the money from the Jews, to whom 
it is indifferent whether their dividends come 
from the railways of the Gentile or the 
temple of the Nazarene. The Revolution of 
1848 hit the 
Rothschilds hard. 
Not only were they 
subjected to heavy 
losses, but their 
personal safety was 
endangered. They 
survived, however, 
and under the 
Empire, as after- 
wards under the 
Republic, the Roth- 
schilds were among 

the most c o n - 

spicuous figures in 

society and in the 

great world of 

finance. When the 

Germans invested 

Paris in 1870, 

Prince Bismarck 

and the head- 
quarters staff of 

the German army 

were i n - 

stalled for 

a fortnight 

in the 


chateau of 

Baron Al- 

]) h n s e 


the son of 


whom he 


in 18 78, 

in whose 

cellars they 

found no fewer than seventeen thousand 

bottles of wine of the earliest vintage, and 

whose park was stocked with deer and 

pheasants and all manner of game. When 

peace came, it was in Baron Alphonse's 

house that Jules Ferry and Bismarck 




arranged the terms of peace, and it was 
Baron Alphonse who raised the two hundred 
milHon pounds of the war indemnity. The 
Kothschilds of Paris for nearly ninety years 
have lived in France as if they had been 
among the grandest of the grand seigneurs 
of the old regime. 

In Austria they were welcomed heartily 
by Prince Metternich. It was there that 
they were first ennobled, and there they 
still live and thrive. They are not permitted 
to enter Russia. They have a prejudice 
against Spain. The branch which they 
established at Naples was discontinued. The 
dynasty abandoned its family seat at Frank- 
fort years ago, and last year the Frankfort 
house was shut down. It carries on business 
at London, Paris, and Vienna. From these 
centres it spreads its 
tentacles to the utter- 
most ends of the earth. 

The dynasty is 
primarily financial. 
The Eothschilds, even 
when in Parliament, 
are financiers first, 
politicians afterwards. 
Somewhat of the 
caution born of the 
Ghetto, the product of 
long generations of 
persecution, deters 
them from playing a 
prominent role in any 
other sphere but that 
of finance. A Roth- 
schild, as I have 
mentioned, was the first 
Jew who ever sat in 
the House of Commons, 
and his son was the 
first Hebrew financier admitted to the 
House of Lords. Neither father nor son 
has left a trace of his presence on the 
legislation of Britain. They have been so 
neutral that the man in the street hardly 
can tell whether they are Conservatives or 

They are neutral by calculation as well as 
by temperament. They naturally were 
drawn to Disraeli, the first man of their race 
who was Prime Minister of England. But 
Baron Rothschild represented the City of 
London in the Liberal interests, and took 
his seat with the Opposition when he entered 
Parliament when Disraeli was in office. 
They are Unionists to-day, but they allowed 
one of their daughters, Hannah, the child 
and heiress of Baron Meyer de Rothschild, 

Photo by} 


to marry Lord Rosebery, and so endow 
the Liberal statesman who succeeded Mr. 
Gladstone as Prime Minister with the treasure- 
house of Mentmore and the enormous fortune 
of her father. It is part of their business 
tradition to be on good terms with whatever 
Government is in power. The brougham of 
Lord Rothschild is constantly to be seen 
opposite the residences of important Ministers. 
The visit of a Rothschild is not resented by 
a Secretary of State, for in most cases he 
brings more than he takes. The Rothschild 
secret intelligence office is believed to be 
much better served than the Ministry in all 
that relates to the collection of early and 
timely information as to the probable drift 
of events in foreign capitals. Just before 
the Jameson Raid convulsed the Stock 
Exchange, it was noted 
that Lord Rothschild 
had a long confidential 
conversation with 
Mr. Chamberlain at the 
Colonial Ofiice. Of 
course, both men may 
have been entirely 
ignorant of the im- 
pending coup. The 
visit may have had 
nothing to do with 
South African affairs. 
But on the other hand, 
supposing either or 
both of them were 
aware of what was in 
the wind, it is easy to 
see a hint from the 
Minister might have 
been worth much 
to the financier. This 
intercourse with the 
Ministers of the Crown is concealed rather 
than paraded. Occasionally it is commented 
upon with asperity, but the public seem to 
regard with equanimity the practice of 
treating the head of the house of Rothschild 
as a kind of unofficial consulter of the 

When Disraeli bought for England the 
Suez Canal shares from the Khedive, it was 
the Rothschilds who advanced the six 
million pounds which were wanted at once. 
They charged pretty heavily for the 
accommodation, but they found the money. 
If the British Government is going to 
borrow money, it is assumed as a matter of 
course that Lord Rothschild will know all 
about it. The Ministers of the King who 
has his court at Buckingham Palace never 

[Russell & Sons. 



Photo by] 


INewman, Berkhampstead. 

quarrel with the uncrowned money king who 
has his office in Capel Court. 

No mistake could he greater than to 
imagine that the Eothschilds are solely con- 
cerned in lending money to Governments. 
They probably have dealings with most 
European Governments, but this is only 
one section of their business. Wherever 
there is a good thing, whether it be 
petroleum in the Caucasus, diamonds at 
Kimberley, or gold anywhere, there it will 
be found that the Rothschilds are seated in 
the front row. Long experience has invested 
the famous dynasty with an instinct some- 
what like that which enables the condor 
soaring above the clouds to divine the 
presence of a dead animal in some remote 
valley of the Andes, far beyond the range 
of its vision. They are in everything that 

is a gilt-edged security all over the world, 
from British Consols to the stock of the 
Steel Trust. 

If they had political ambition, they might 
revolutionise Europe. If they have any 
ambition, it is to do no such thing, and if 
possible to prevent anyone else from doing 
it. Money is naturally conservative. The 
Rothschilds, as we know them in London, 
display no ambition greater than that of 
playing a role in English society or of 
winning the Derby. One of them has 
developed a taste for natural history, has 
acclimatised many foreign animals in his 
park at Tring, and has broken in zebras to 
harness. They have founded a kind of 
New Jerusalem of millionaires' palaces on 
the wooded uplands of Buckinghamshire, 
where the presence of their brotlier-in-law 

Photo by]; ^Thompson, Grosvenor Street, W. 





Lord Eosebery at Mentmore does not mar 
the unity of the happy family. 

A Policy of Cautiok and Seclusion. 

In charity, especially among their own 
people, they have earned a good name- 
Baron Albert gave two hundred thousand 
pounds to a hospital in Vienna ; in the 
discharge of the duties of their religion 
they are punctual and devout. But although 
they are so conspicuous in society and in 
finance, they live in what an American 
millionaire would regard as absolute seclusion. 
No one ever ventures *to interview the chief 
of the Eothschild dynasty. No Rothschild 
ever wrote a book or an article or made a 
speech upon any topic of public interest or 
the least public importance. No one outside 
the inner circle knows their opinions. It is 
divined that they are not particularly well 
disposed to Russia on account of the way in 
which the Jews are treated in the Czar's 
Empire. But they are not a force upon 
which the Russophobists can count. During 
at least one critical moment of late years, 
when there was imminent danger of war 
between England and Russia, the whole 
influence of their firm was thrown un- 
hesitatingly and steadily in favour of peace. 

In France they are no longer the para- 
mount power in the financial world. They 
are not exactly monarchs retired from 
business, but they have reached middle age. 
The fervour of their hot youth, when they 
staked their all in the cause of the anti- 
Napoleonic alliance, has spent itself. Then 
they had not so much to stake. You 
cannot go steeplechasing with millions in 
your belt. Every additional million tends to 
dissuade from risk. Hence the Rothschilds 
are more than ever the representatives 
of Conservatism both in politics and in 

Of the net result of their influence on the 
relations of nations, the truest word that 
can be uttered was probably that which fell 
from one of the Rothschilds some years ago. 
Someone had been repeating the familiar 
charge that the financiers were working for 
war in the hope of thereby adding still more 
to their enormous fortunes. Rothschild 
listened quietly for a time, and then inter- 
posed : " Excuse me, sir ; you do not 
understand. None of us want war. War is 
bad for business. But what we like best is 
the time when the public is agitated by the 
dread of an imminent war. When stocks 
go up and down every hour of the day 
under the influence of alternate fits of 

confidence and of despondency, then it is 
that the financier who is in the inside track 
can make his profit." 

The position of the Rothschilds in the 
world of finance is very much like the 
position of the British Empire. Through- 
out the nineteenth century Great Britain 
had practically a monopoly of the sea, of the 
colonies, and of the trade of the world. In 
the twentieth century, while Britain still 
holds the foremost place as a naval and 
colonial Power, she is pressed hard by many 
Powers which, a hundred or even fifty years 
ago, were absolutely out of the running. 
Hence, although the British Empire was 
never so great, and the subjects of the 
British Sovereign never so numerous as 
to-day, it is, comparatively speaking, not so 
dominant as it was twenty-five years ago. 
So it is with the Rothschilds. Their business 
is probably greater to-day than it has ever 
been. Of their invested capital no accounts 
are published. The firm not being a limited 
liability company, all particulars can be kept 
secret ; but although it may be doing more 
business than it ever did, it is no longer in 
the position of an autocrat that brooks no 
rivals near its throne. One small fact is 
sufficient to prove this. A few years ago the 
British Chancellor of the Exchequer never 
took counsel with any financial houses in the 
City excepting the Rothschilds. To-day, 
though the Chancellor of the Exchequer 
still consults the Rothschilds, he also con- 
sults other financiers — a fact typical of 

Lord Rothschild is regarded as the ablest 
of the present generation. Besides the 
financial influence which he exercises, he 
has made himself a social and political force 
of no mean order. The institution of the 
week-end, to which even Parliament itself 
has recently made obeisance, by which the 
leaders of politics and society stream out of 
town on Friday night or Saturday morning 
to spend the week-end in the country, has 
been made use of by Lord Rothschild for 
the consolidation of the power of his dynasty 
and the extension of its influence. In his 
palatial country seat at Tring he brings 
together for week-ends leaders of both 
political parties, as well as rising men who 
are not yet entitled to be regarded as leaders. 
Under his hospitable roof Tories and Liberal 
Unionists and Home Rulers meet as on 
neutral ground, and Lord Rothschild is 
never so well pleased as when he is able 
at these informal meetings to render himself 
useful to the Ministers of the King. 


Illustrated by B. Griswold 



As soon as the fire burns red and low, 
And the house up-stairs is still, 
She sings me a queer little sleepy song, 
Of sheep that go over the hill. 

The good little sheep run quick and soft, 
Their colors are gray and white : 
They follow their leader nose to tail, 
For they must be home by night. 

And one slips over and one comes next, 
And one runs after behind, 
The gray one's nose at the white one's tail. 
The top of the hill they find. 

And when they get to the top of the hill 
They quietly slip away, 
But one runs over and one comes next — 
Their colors are white and gray. 

And over they go, and over they go. 
And over the top of the hill. 
The good little sheep run thick and fast, 
And the house up-stairs is still. 

And one slips over and one comes next, 
The good little, gray little sheep ! 
I watch how the fire burns red and low, 
And she says that I fall asleep. 



IT was altogether out of place for 
Honoria, being already engaged, to 
show such interest in a mere passing 
acquaintance like Mr. Trench ; her sister 
made mental notes on a lecture to be 
delivered on the subject. Moreover, it was 
strangely unlike Honoria, who took every- 
thing, even her engagement, most seriously. 
And this Mr. Trench was not in the least 
like Dick's report of him. Mrs. Selwood 
tried to recall the letter w^ord for word— 
"silent, reserved, inclined to pessimism, a 
good fellow with men, but not at all fond of 
women, a clever barrister, with the additional 
faculty of making the dust stick." He 
might be that; and " pretty well knocked up 
through over-work" — he certainly looked 

" But, then," she lamented to herself, as 
she fluttered the pages of the novel she was 
supposed to be reading, and, from beneath 
her sunshade, watched the two on the rocks 
below, " Dick thought he probably would 
not use his introduction to us, and here 
within the fortnight he is making love to 
Honoria ! If Philip should run down for 
a week-end now, it might be awkward ! " 

But Mrs. Selwood was quite mistaken. 
Peyton Trench was not making love, and 
Honoria was (involuntarily, perhaps) wish- 
ing that he would. He was talking philo- 
sophy, and -Honoria was (quite definitely) 
wishing that he wouldn't. 

She assented and disagreed indifferently, 
having far more interest, it seemed, in the 
pebbles she was dropping into the sea below 
than in anything her companion was saying. 

" But do you think you can possibly fore- 
tell what any man will become — ultimately ? " 
he persisted with a curious earnestness, quite 
unlike his usual tactful way of falling into 
her moods. 

" ' We know what we are,' " she began 
idly, and stopped. It was not worth the 
efPort to continue. 

"Environment and heredity fighting it 
out. Who knows which will win ? " 

"Environment, if one could always live 

* Copyright, 1903, by Ward, Lock and Co., in the 
United States of America. 

in Cornwall," was her answer. "You 
couldn't be wicked, with that fairyland of 
purple coast-line before you ; or sorrowful, 
with the possibility of a sea-maiden popping 
up in the cave over there ; or prosaic, under 
the walls of King Arthur's castle — could 

" Oh, yes ! all those things," he retorted 
coolly. " I'm not romantic, like you." 

She was a trifle nettled, and answered, 
twisting her ring : " Haven't we had enough 
philosophy for one day ? " 
" Does it bore you ? " 
" Rather. My mind is not large enough 
to be interested in such matters unless they 
have a personal application." 

" I should have called this rather personal ; 
but perhaps you have had no hereditary 
weaknesses to conquer — only graces to 
develop. Well — to change the subject — 
that's a pretty ring ; looks like an engage- 

" It is," said Honoria calmly ; and there 
was a silence. 

"You haven't worn it before— since I 
came — have you ? " 

" I cut my finger," she explained, " and it 
w^as very painful at first ; and then — I 
forgot." She ended lamely and in some 

"Then how could I be expected to know ?" 
he demanded. 

Honoria turned and looked at him steadily ; 
at the dark, irregular face, with its strong 
lines and angles, at the light-grey eyes, now 
rather clouded, but ready for a sudden 
impulse of mirth, at the humorous uplifting 
of one eyebrow above the other, at the one- 
sided smile, half-amused, half-satirical, on 
the somewhat grim mouth. Then she made 
up her mind and said deliberately — 

"I don't see that it makes the least 
difference whether you know^ or not." 

" Nor do I," he granted ; " only you took 
the trouble to tell me, by wearing your ring 

Honoria looked away, hot and un- 

" I wonder why it is that I like you so 
much ? " he continued presently, with a 
change of tone. 

" 'You mean that you — love me?' he asked at lengtli.' 



" So do I," she answered lightly — "that is, 
if you do." 

" Well, I do," he said simply, and added : 
" It isn't because you are pretty, you know ; 
IVeseen scores of prettier women." 

" Thank you ! " She bent her head in 
saucy acknowledgment. 

" You must know that is true— unless you 
are vain, and I didn't think that of you. 
Am I wrong ? " 

" Perhaps it is because of my cleverness ? " 
she suggested a trifle bitterly. 

" No, nor yet because you dress well ; nor 
for your pretty ways ; nor for your strange- 
ness. You are delicate and elusive, and as 
prickly as a — a — a sea- this tie, Honoria," 
said he, finding his image at last in the little 
blue flower growing at his feet. " I think I 
love you for your honesty." 

So here was the love-making ; and after 
all, Honoria did not like it ! 

" I am not ' Honoria ' to you," she 
corrected him gently. 

" Did I call you that ? I am very absent- 
minded. But it doesn't matter," he con- 
cluded, as if to himself. 

" Doesn't it ? " she retorted, with a little 
laugh. " Mr. Lane would hardly agree with 

" Lane ? Oh ! the other fellow. I see." 

" Lucy will be wanting to go back. It's 
nearly tea-time," she suggested, as he did 
not seem disposed to break the silence. 

" She went ten minutes ago," he answered. 
" I heard the swish of her skirt. I think 
she wanted us to join her." 

"By all means," said the girl, and rose 

Not one word did they speak as he helped 
her up the steep cliff-path. When they were 
going along the stony road, she skilfully 
steered the conversation into safe shallows, 
wdtli no help from him beyond a bare mono- 
syllable now and then. But when they stood 
at the gate of the farmhouse where she and 
her sister lodged, he seemed suddenly to 
rouse himself. 

."Miss Bentley." he said, as he opened the 
wicket for her, " I have made a fool of 
myself this afternoon." 

"Yes, I think you have," she admitted 
sweetly. *' Come in to tea." 

"No, thank you. I don't deserve it," he 
began. But as she walked away without 
dismissing him, he felt called upon to follow 
her up the path. As they passed under the 
arch of fuchsia-trees, with their dropping 
points of flame, he continued hesitatingly : 
" I don't exactly know how to undo it." 

" There's no way," she interrupted quickly. 
" Such things are never undone ; they are 
forgiven often ; forgotten — sometimes." 

There was a curious note in her voice that 
made Trench lean forward to see her face ; 
but she kept it turned away. 

They reached a desolate little vine-covered 
summer-house, damp yet from the recent 
rain, its floor strewn with dead leaves and 
unripe grapes ; and there Honoria paused, 
with her hand resting on a rickety, lichen- 
covered table, and faced him. 

" I must go," he began ; but she looked at 
him, dumb and wide-eyed with some emotion 
that made him ask hurriedly : " What is it ? 
What is wrong ? Tell me." 

" You said I was honest," she almost 
whispered, " and— and I must be — now. I 
don't know what you have done — you have 
— you have caught my soul away from me." 

He stepped back, suddenly white and 

"You have — I don't know how it could 
happen — in two weeks — but my will is no 
longer mine." Her steady look dropped 
and she turned away ; and still he waited, 
quiet, almost breathless, it seemed. 

" You mean that you — love me ? " he 
asked at length. 

" I don't know," she answered dully ; but 
went on with sudden anger : " I don't know 
what love is ! I thought I loved Philip — I 
told him so. But perhaps there are other 
kinds of love — for other people. I don't 
know. Tell me what to " 

She stopped and held out her hands 
appealingly, but before he could take them, 
slipped her ring upon the table. 

" I must be free," she said simply. 

Then he took her hands, but almost 
coldly ; and she, looking up into his face, 
was frightened and asked : " Are you ill ? " 

" No," he answered, smiling a little, but 
with beads of sweat on his forehead ; " only 

" You mean — that I — I — am mistaken ? " 

And then he was holding her close, his 
face against her brow, as he said hurriedly : 
" It is all wrong, Honoria. I am sinning 
against you — now — this moment ; for even 
if you were free, I am not." 

She closed her eyes, as if to keep out the 

" You are married, then ? ' 

" Oh, no ! " — with a startled lifting of the 

" Engaged, then ? " 

" Not at all." 

" HoWj then, not free ? " 




"'You must tell me something else — it is my right to know. Quick! Before he comes.' 

" I can't tell yon." 

" But why ? " She tried to draw away ; 
but he held her fast. 

" I — I cannot. I am a coward." 

*' Let me go ! " she said in a low, shamed 
voice that admitted of no denial. And 
when he had released her, she stood with 
one hand leaning on the table, the other 
putting back her dishevelled hair. 

" I can't — quite — see," she said presently. 

He was equally slow in answering : " There 
are some things a man cannot help." 

" And there are some a woman cannot 
understand. You said — you made me think 
that you cared " 

" And so I do ; but I did not mean to tell 

" Yet when I — let you see — you put me 
aside — without any reason " 

" Yes," he admitted quietly; " it is wrong — 

wrong ; but I cannot do otherwise— at 

" Will you tell me some day ? " 

" If I can. Honoria ! Don't look at 
me in that way. I can't stand it." 

"Is it something — something that you 
have done ? I could forgive you much," 
she pleaded timidly. 

"No ; it's no use. I've wronged you and 
myself. And your lover " 

She put up her hand to stop him. 

" he must be considered. You loved 

him two weeks ago. You will love him again." 

She looked at him in silence, biting her 
lips to keep back the tears. 

" It's altogether my fault, and I'll go 
away at once ; then, perhaps " 

She suddenly caught his arm and laid her 
cheek against it. " Are you made of granite, 
that you have no pity for us ? " 



" Crumbling stone," he answered, with a 
faint smile, " or I should never have let 
things come to this pass." 

He would have gone then, but she clung 
to his arm desperately, saying : ^' I cannot let 
you go — not if you love me — as you say. 
Kiss me — let us be happy — kiss me ! " 

" If I do, I'm lost," he said shortly.^ "If 
you have any respect for me, Honoria, or 
wish to have, be strong for us both." 

xind presently, as he waited, she lifted up 
her head and sapid very quietly, turning 
away along the path : " Yes, I wall. Good- 

''A moment," said he, and she looked 
over her shoulder to see him holding her 
ring. " You have forgotten this." 

As she took it, he added : "Put it on ! " 

" Not yet ! " 

" Better." 

" I can't. Would you make me desperate ? " 

" God forgive me, Honoria ! " 

" I hope he may," said she bitterly. " I 
can't." And she went away without looking 

" I couldn't wait for you any longer," 
said her sister, as she entered their sitting- 
room. " I'll ring for some fresh tea. Isn't 
Mr. Trench coming ? " 

"No," said Honoria, and shut her lips 
tightly as the lecture began. 

Presently she walked over to the mantel 
and opened a letter lying there. As Mrs. 
Selwood concluded, she turned to her with a 
slight smile, saying : " This is from Philip. 
He wi'ites that- he is thinking of coming 
down for the week-end — to-morrow. I 
shall wire him to postpone it ; that is all." 

" Honoria ! " 

" Lucy ! " 

" Have you gone mad ? " 

Honoria laughed. " Oh, no ; I — I think 
not ; only— next week would suit me better. 
I can explain to him. Don't you bother ! " 

" It is very fortunate for you," said her 
sister slowly, " that Philip has a good 

"Yes, I congratulate myself," said Hon- 
oria, still laughing a little, as she went out 
of the room. " No, thank you, I don't want 
any tea." 

It was towards the end of the following 
week that their landlady said, as she brought 
in the breakfast — 

" Mr. Trench had a bad night, mum." 

" Is he ill ? " asked Mrs. Selwood. " I 
wondered why we had not seen him lately," 
she continued, turning to Honoria. 

"There now, mum, I thought there was 

something I meant to tell you.' He's been 
very bad for several days : and Mrs. Brown 
was so anxious that she wanted to have the 
doctor from Camelford — only he wouldn't 
hear of it " 

" What is the matter with him ? " inter- 
rupted Honoria. 

"Why, that's just it, miss. Mrs. Brown 
doesn't know " 

The sisters listened in silence to the long 
list of symptoms that Mrs. Brown had 
discovered, or thought she had discovered ; 
and when the landlady w^as gone, liucy 
said — 

" I suppose, as he is Dick's friend, we 
ought to send to inquire ; or, perhaps, when 
we are out this morning, we might stop 
and ask. Which do you think would be 
better ? " 

" Just as you like," said Honoria in- 

Eventually they had no need of a decision, 
for on their way to the cliffs they met 
Mrs. Brown just turning in at her own gate, 
and stopped to ask — that is, Lucy asked, 
while Honoria stood by, tracing patterns in 
the dust with her sunshade. 

" You see, mum, I'm afraid he's losing his 
mind," the woman was saying ; " such a nice 
gentleman as he is, too " 

She stopped in amazement, and Lucy 
turned to see her sister slowly walking up 
the path to meet Trench, who stood at the 

With an effort Lucy preserved her look of 
kindly interest and continued to talk, until 
presently Honoria came back alone. 

" Well, miss, what do you think ? " asked 
Mrs. Brown. 

" He seems nearly recovered," said the 
girl coldly, and turned to her sister. " He 
was coming down to speak with you, but I 
thought it better to dissuade him." 

" Much better," said Lucy, hiding daggers, 
and the sisters turned away. 

On the following day, they were sitting 
in the garden, and Lucy had been reading 
aloud, when Trench was announced. Hon- 
oria flushed a little, not having forgotten 
certain comments made by her sister the day 
before, and Lucy herself appeared rather 

Altogether it was a short and uncomfort- 
able visit, for Honoria bent over her sewing 
with scarcely a word, Trench seemed feeble 
and depressed, and Mrs. Selwood found 
unsupported affability rather difficult. When 
he arose to go, he said " Good-bye," as he 
meant to return to town on the morrow. 



Honoria stood looking after him, and 
before Lucy could utter a word of protest, 
dropped her. sewing and followed. 

She overtook him just beyond the gate, 
and he turned at the sound of footsteps and 
stopped short. 

"I only w^anted— to say that I — under 
stand you better than I did," she said, 
colouring painfully. 

'' What ? " 

" Since yesterday." 

" What then ? Yesterday ? What hap- 

" You are very foolish ! " 

" Yes." 

" Well ? " 

"You see, we expect Phihp to-morrow, 
and I thought, perhaps — oh ! why w^on't you 
help me ? " 

" Help you ? I wall," said he suddenly. 
" You are a mere baby in these matters. I 
must help you from yourself, Honoria." 

" I am quite sure that you are not to 
blame," she said earnestly. 

" But I am not sure," he replied, scanning 
her closely. 

"Could I not 
help ? " she bej^'an 

" How 

women — 
gan, but 

many good 

-" he be- 

turned his 

"Then he walked slowly back, and the dog followed him 

pened yesterday ? " He clutched her wrist, 
with a certain look of fear in his eyes. 

" I saw you yesterday — you know." 

" You saw me ? " He stared a moment, 
then dropped her hand. "Yes ? You saw 
me yesterday ? What then ? You have dis- 
covered, no doubt — I don't remember— that 
I was right in not letting you sacrifi(;e " 

" No ; that's the pohit," she said, smiling 
a little. "You are quite wi'ong. I came to 
tell you so." 

" You think I am wrong? " 

" Yes." 

sentence differently — 
"help— the devil!" he 
ended in a hopeless 
tone. " It has gone 
too far." 

" How long ? " she 

" Some tluce and a 
half centuries, I know^ ; 
probably much longer. 
And Fill the last of 
my family." He 
changed his tone. 
"There's a man coming 
up the lane." 

"It's Philip," she 
said, turning to look. 
"I shall tell him— 
very soon." 

"No," he inter- 
rupted eagerly. 
"Wait — wait a 
fortnight after I 
have gone." Read- 
ing the protest in 
her face, he con- 
tinued : " Take my 
judgment, and be quite sure first. Would 
you have me curse myself ? " 

She looked at him hard, then said: "Very 
w^ell ; I shall begin my acting at once." 

Thereupon she went to meet Lane, with a 
pretty air of pleased surprise, and brought 
him up and presented him to Trench. 

" Heard of you from Dick often," said 
Lane, advancing more than half-way in 
friendliness ; and during their few moments' 
talk Trench decided that he was the right 
sort. Presently he left them together, and, 
as he stopped short in his w^alk some dozen 



paces away, heard Lane's rather loud, cheer- 
ful voice from the garden, saying : *' Seems 
a pleasant chap. Well, sweetheart -" 

Some hours later, Trench was sitting on the 
edge of the cliff, looking across at a misty coast- 
line as it disappeared slowly in the rosy twi- 
light, w^hen Honoria came up silently behind 
him, and kneeling at his shoulder, ' said : 
"Don't look back at me. Philip will meet me 
here in a few minutes. He just stopped at 
the post-office — some business. I thought I 
should find you here — where you told me — 
you know. You must tell me something 
else — it is my right to know. Quick ! 
Before he comes, teSl me how " 

Keeping his face resolutely away from her, 
he said : " You know most of it ; but you 
cannot realise, of course, what it means to 
have one's whole body cry out for stimf lant 
— weeks at a time. I make no excuses ; but 
you must understand that the case is hope- 
less —I have tried all the ways. When I was 
younger, I made a better fight ; but it was 
bound to be a losing game in the end ; one 
individual against — how many ? I might 
have succeeded, but I nearly broke down 
over my first important case. I took a 
little and it carried me through ; it was a 
triumph. Since then, my whole reputation is 
built upon it." He turned and smiled at her a 
moment. " I saw that it was a losing fight, 
and I made the best of it, perhaps ; only I 
vowed never to love any woman ; and I have 
broken that vow. I am talking too long. 
This last time, though — I am ashamed and 
sorry for this last time " 

" It was because you were unhappy," she 
said softly. 

" Don't excuse it," was the curt answer. 

He took out of his pocket a silver-mounted 
leather flask, looked at it a moment, and 
with a sudden movement hurled it over the 
edge of the cliff ; then turned to her, his face 
a deep red. 

" I trust you don't believe that I am 
guilty of excess often ? " 

She apparently did not hear, for she said : 
" Since you will not hare me on any other 
terms, will you take me with you— over the 
cliff-like the flask?" 

A sudden tremor shook the hands that 
reached for hers ; still he would not look at 
her, but only at the grey sea, as he said, 
clutching her hard : " If I do not, it is 
from love of you ; if you will believe — the 
temptation " 

He loosed her liands as' suddenly as lie had 
taken them, and got to his feet, looking 

down upon her. " You can be strong," he 
said steadily, " and you will be happy, and I 
shall — do what I can." 

There was a sound of whistling above, and 
Lane's voice called across the furze-meadow 
behind them : " Honoria ! " 

Trench helped her to her feet, and with 
his handkerchief dusted from her dress 
various bits of grass and seeds clinging to it. 
Then, as he rose to face her, she said with a 
curious little gesture of the hands, as if she 
were throwing something away ; " Thank 

" Don't marry him if you find that I have 
judged you wrongly. But give the evil spell 
time to lose its effect ; and, meanwhile, be 
good to him." 

Then Honoria gathered her courage 
together and said clearly : " Whatever 
happens, you are and I am ; and I'm 
glad " Her voice failed her. 

He smiled into her shining eyes. " Now 
you're Honoria ! " 

She gathered her skirts about her and 
fairly ran up the little slope to the summit, 
where she knew Lane was looking for her. 
At the top she paused a second and waved 
her hand, and Trench was left alone. 

How long he sat there he never knew. 
He was roused by a soft rustle in the grass, 
and turned with his heart beating wildly ; 
but it was not Honoria. It w^as a stray dog, 
a poor, mangy cur that came up and nosed 
him, and finally, taking courage, thrust his 
head under the man's arm for comfort. 
Trench's hand almost mechanically fell to 
rubbing the forlorn head, and thereupon he 
came to himself with a jerk. He leaned out 
over the cliff and looked down upon the 
waves curdling over the boulders below, 
then addressed the friendly beast with a 

" Melodramatic instinct, old chap, that's 
what it was, made me hurl that flask down 
below ; only have to get another to-morrow. 
To-morrow ? Not quite so soon, if we can 
help it, eh ? Come along home now, and 
you shall share a bone with me ; and we'll 
call you Oedipus, perhaps — he had a bad 
ancestry, if I remember — like you and me. 
And when they get the better of us, as they 
are bound to do, you lop-eared, blear-eyed 
creature, why, we'll just drink their health ; 
there's nothing else for us to do, eh ? 
To my ancestors ! " 

He raised his hand in an imaginary toast, 
then he walked .slowly back, and the dog 
followed him. 




happened in 
the harbour of 
Yalpar also 
which sent a 
chill of horror 
and amaze- 
ment through- 
out the civil- 
ised world — 
the limited 
~~ "" ' ^^ section of the 

world, that is, which heard of the matter; 
for since it was hushed up as soon as born, 
and promptly denied by those connected with 
naval matters (lest a new and deserving in- 
vention should be condemned before it should 
have been brought to perfection), the rumour 
of the amazing mishap was not allowed to 

The submarine torpedo-vessel, the C^r- 
mor ant, Sidmittedl J thQmo^t successful product 
of human ingenuity in this line up to 
the present moment, had suddenly and un- 
accountably disappeared — made off " on its 
own," carrying away with it its inventor, a 
young engineer of wonderful promise, 
together with his little crew of four persons. 
It had disappeared at a singularly unfor- 
tunate moment, for the Chilian Government 
had just signified its intention — after ex- 
haustive trials — to purchase the vessel. Its 
designer and inventor, ChilHngworth, had 
himself brought the little diving steamer 
into harbour in order to offer her for sale. 
He had himself suggested and carried out 
the experiments which had so dehghted and 
amazed the heads of the Chilian Naval De- 
partment, and Government had only that 
very morning notified the gifted inventor of 
its intention to purchase upon his own 
terms. It was a singularly unfortunate 
moment for the mysterious little craft to 
choose in order to make off and disappear ; 
a horrible disappointment for the Chilian 
authorities, who were as pleased with their 
new acquisition as a child with its last toy ; 
and of course, as all agreed, it was a terrible 
thing for Chilling worth and his companions. 

^ * Copyright. 1903, by Fred Whishaw, in the United 
States of America. 

'* Oh ! they'll turn up," some said. " He's 
done it to show us that the marvels of his 
devilish little ship were not exhausted at the 
trial trip." 

" Maybe," others rejoined ; "but one could 
see he didn't expect her to dive. Several 
witnesses, men who were in the harbour at 
the time, declare that they saw him running 
about and shouting to his fellows just before 
they sank, and one of them jumped over- 
board. He says he left because the Cormorant 
was making off on its own, and he didn't 
particularly relish it." 

"Well, Chillingworth will bring her along 
home," said the sanguine ones, and laid 
odds upon it, though they were sorry they 
had backed their opinions before forty- 
eight hours had passed, for there was still 
no sign of the Cormorant, and the prospects 
of clever Chillingworth and his men return- 
ing from the bottom of the sea began to 
look faint indeed. The Cormorant had 
come splendidly through her trial trips. 
She had travelled twenty-five miles in an 
irregular, marked course, totally submerged, 
and had testified her actual proximity 
to each of the mark-boats specially placed 
for her trial spin, by shooting up a sub- 
marine rocket (invented by Chillingworth) 
in order to prove that he had followed the 
course laid down for him. Then she had 
returned — still submerged — into the harbour, 
threaded her way among the ships which 
crowded the narrow waterway, and had taken 
up her moorings at the very spot she had 
occupied a couple of hours before. 

Itw^as a smart performance, and the authori- 
ties had agreed to purchase without a dis- 
sentient note, though the price asked by 
Chillingworth was enormous. 

And then, but a few hours later, when the 
gifted young American was about to come 
ashore in order to take part in the compli- 
mentary banquet arranged in his honour, he 
being then — as some declared — already 
dressed for the feast, the marvellous little 
ship suddenly sank of its own accord and 
made off. 

Days passed - three, four, fiYQ days, and 
there was no news of her. " How could there 
be any ? " asked the croakers, and even the 
most sanguine could not now profess to have 




muck hope that Chillingworth and bis men 
would return. 

Certainly no one would have supposed that 
the political difficulties of the little Eepublic 
of Eoxalia could have anything to do with 
the disappearance of the Cormorant ; yet this 
was the actual fact, as must now be explained. 

Those who know their South America are 
doubtless aware that the Eepublic of Pal- 
ladia has for neighbours, one on each side 
of her, the little Principality of Pamira and 
the tiny Eepublic of Eoxalia. But for the 
buffer State of Palladia, these two little 
Powers would long mnce have flown at one 
another's throats, for their mutual hatred 
was a mature and very perfect growth, the 
product of centuries of trade rivalry and 
political jealousy. 

Both States were entirely impecunious — a 
second safeguard ; for if either could have 
afforded a descent upon the coast of the 
other, the expedition would have taken 
place. Doubtless big Palladia would after- 
wards have knocked their heads together 
for quarrelling, as a big boy would punish 
two smaller fellows whom he found fighting, 
but nevertheless Eoxalia would have flung 
herself upon Pamira if she could, and 
Pamira would have done the same by 
Eoxalia, in the scorn of consequence and of 
her great neighbour Palladia. 

Of late there had been terrible quarrelling 
between the tw^o little States. Some com- 
mercial rivalry had grown intolerably acute, 
and the usual meaningless threats had 
passed between the Chancellories —meaning- 
less because hitherto both States had been 
well aware that nothing could ever come of 
this wordy war, and doubtless Eoxalia was 
no more frightened by Pamira's threats on 
this occasion than heretofore. Yet — as she 
was now to discover to her sudden amaze- 
ment and consternation — she stood, for once, 
in real and imminent peril. 

For not long since, the multi-millionaire 
Heavyside, of New York, had contracted a 
matrimonial alliance with Princess Eosa, 
daughter of Karl Edouard of Pamira, and — 
the Prince being an old man, and frail— had 
made no secret of his intention to occupy 
the worthy old sovereign's throne when the 
time came, if money could effect his object. 
Whether, when the time came, he should 
be called reigning Prince or Prince Consort, 
did not trouble Mr. Heavyside ; either would 
suit him nicely, he declared, so long as 
he might run the show. Then came the 
quarrel between the two little States, 
and the people of Pamira learned to their 

surprise and delight that the marriage of 
Princess Eosa, though socially a mesalliance, 
was to prove politically both significant and 
important for their country. " Guess I'll 
soon stop their bluffing," Heavyside had said. 
" Pm off to New York right now, father-in- 
law, and I guess I'll deal you a good hand." 
Within twenty-four hours Heavyside had 
bought a fine cruiser. She cost him more 
than half a million of dollars, but the ship 
was cheap at that. While in the city he met 
young Chillingworth, whose little vessel, the 
Cormorant, then lay in dock for inspection. 
Heavyside had already purchased his cruiser, 
and was not inclined to deal for the sub- 
marine ; he did not believe in that class of 
vessel, and, moreover, the cruiser would suit 
his purpose. 

" My ship would sink a dozen of your 
wasps," he said, '"in as many minutes. 
How're you goin' to see under water ? " 

"I claim that I can," said Chilhngworth. 

" Wal, can you bombard a town ? " asked 
the other. 

" I can prevent your ship doing it, or any 
other," said Chillingworth. 

" Wal, you've got to catch her first, sonny, 
and my ship's going to sail two miles to your 
one, and see wliere she's heading, too. No, 
I ain't dealin' ; yours may be very clever, 
but I don't believe in it. You get forrard a 
l)it with your submarines and then bring me 
one, and I don't know but what I'll take it ; 
but that ain't going to be to-day." 

"Better buy this one," said Chillingworth, 
" or she'll go." 

" Let her go, then, and be hanged ! " 
replied Heavyside rudely, and the remark 
cost him dear. 

So back went Prince Consort Heavyside 
to Pamira, and a few days later there sailed 
into port, to the delight of Prince and 
people, the beautiful cruiser Devastator. 

" Guess Eoxalia's ours," said Heavyside ; 
" You can go nap on that ship, father- 
in-law\ Come, and we'll send them that 
ultimatum right now." 

And Prince Karl Edouard, nothing loth, 
launched forth his ultimatum conveying to 
the miserable Eepublic of Eoxalia certain 
unheard of and preposterous demands, the 
refusal of wdiich meant war, and the acqui- 
escence with which was utterly impossible. 

The ultimatum arrived at a moment 
when President, Council, and people had 
already been plunged into a state of amaze- 
ment and consternation by the news, wired 
from Pamira by the Eoxalian minister at 
Karl Edouard 's court, of the sudden pur- 




' So back went Prince Consort TIeavvside. 

chase of a first-class cruiser, sufficient—- 
albeit a second-hand article— of itself to 
dictate terms at the cannon's mouth to 
helpless Roxalia. For the latter State 
possessed but two old gunboats, and of these 
one was now enjoying its yearly holiday in 
dry-dock, while the other was usefully 
employed as a fever hospital for the capital 
city of Yillambrosa. 

And before the President had recovered 
from the shock of this terrible news of the 
cruiser's purchase, there came— to render the 
Roxalian dilemma utterly hopeless — the 
ultimatum of the Prince. 

"This explains the cruiser," said the Presi- 
dent. '* What on earth are we going to do ?" 

This was a ques- 
tion which not one 
of the Cabinet could 
answer. There was 
nothing to do, and 
everyone of them 
knew it. 

most of them ad- 
journed to the 
harbour in order to 
inspect "the Coast- 
guard vessels," as 
President Palossa 
grandiloquent \j 
called the two old 
gunboats. And it 
was while his Ex- 
cellency, Avith half-a- 
dozen of his gravely 
depressed colleagues, 
was busy over this 
pitiful inspection of 
his two useless ships, 
that a most extra- 
ordinary thing 
happened. ' 

Bartolozzi, the 
Minister of the 
Interior, suddenly 
cried out : " Blue 
Heaven, Palossa ! 
see ! It is the sea 
serpent ! " 

It was not a sea 
serpent, but the 
upper extremities of 
a submarine vessel 
rising from the 
deep. Bartolozzi, 
being a Minister of 
the Interioi', may be 
forgiven the mistake, 
since he could hardly be expected to be 
versed in matters connected with the ocean. 

Up came Chillingworth's Cormorant, for 
she it was, shaking the water from her 
shoulders and revealing herself, presently, a 
beautiful little sea-monster, floating like a 
duck upon the waves, and riding the ocean 
as easily and as gracefully as though she 
no more possessed the gift of diving beneath 
the surface tlian did the clumsy old gun- 
boat that lay but a few yards from her 

Speechless with amazement, the President 
and his men watched the phenomenon. 
Still speechless, they saw Chillingworth come 
on deck and salute. They returned the 



courtesy automatically. Chilling worth asked 
two questions. 

" Is there any gentleman of the Press 
present ? " was the first question, and upon 
being informed that a reporter was, as a 
matter of fact, among the group of men 
before him, he requested that the gentleman 
might forthwith be arrested until further 
notice, " in case of accidents." Palossa 

ministers and of Palossa sounded hopeful 
and jubilant. It was evident that the 
stranger had brought good news. 

A sailor, standing sentry at the top of the 
companion, plainly overheard Palossa repeat, 
in amazement, some words spoken in a lower 
tone by Chilling worth. These words were : 
" Declare war at midday to-morrow ! " He 
did not catch Chilling worth's words, nor 

-. ^^i^^^ 

\:r ,:i 

^ _. >SS^>^Jr/ 

" Up came Chillingworth's Cormorant^ shaking the water from her shoulders." 

had the protesting* individual locked up in a 

" Now, may I be presented to the 
President?" continued Chillingworth. "Tell 
his Excellency I have come upon business 
of vital importance." 

Palossa bowed. 

" I am the President," he said. 

Then Chillingworth drew the old man 
aside, and they conversed awhile in under- 
tones, but presently Palossa beckoned to his 
ministers, and it was noticed that Ids face 
seemed to have grown younger by ten years, 
and the eight men conversed together in an 
animated fashion. The voices of the 

anything else that was said until Palossa 
suddenly observed aloud — 

" Yery well, then, you shall show us this, 
and if all goes well, war shall be declared 
to-morrow ; that will make 'em stare, eh, 
Bartolozzi ? eh, Sebastian ? " The old man 
rubbed his hands. " Hi ! you there on the 
empty coal-lighter!" he shouted, "haul 
your craft out of harbour into the open 
there and anchor her ; then come ashore in 
the dinghy ; see you leave nothing alive on 
board, and nothing you value— quickly now." 

"What are you going to do with the 
lighter? " said the man hesitatingly. "Shall 
I be paid for it if you damage it ? " 

" Suddenly, without warning, the bows of the vessel seemed to part asunder." 



" You shall be well paid, and we're goings 
to send it to the devil, I hope ! " shouted 
Palossa, rubbing his hands together. 

No one had ever seen the old man so 
jubilant before this day. The lighterman 
quickly hauled his craft out into the open 
and left her there, he and his crew returning 
in his small boat. 

"Now, gentlemen, if you're ready," said 
Chillingwortli, " I am." 

Palossa bowed. His excitement prevented 
further speech. 

The Cimnorant slo\\dy sank and dis- 
appeared. Two minutes later there was a 
crash and a commotion, and up flew the 
fragments of the lighter ; there were not 
two planks of her left united. The President 
cheered aloud and clapped his hands, and 
the ministers followed snit. None present 
could find words to thank Chillingwortli 
when he reappeared. 

" You have saved us. What shall we say to 
you ? " said old Palossa, grasping his hand, 
tears standing in his eyes. 

" That's all right," replied Chillingworth. 
" If you're content, I am, too. Now, then, 
I'll be off. Declare war punctually at twelve 
to-morrow ; send your man a wire. Don't 
allow anyone ashore meanwhile, and especially - 
keep that reporter chap under lock and key. 
The old gunboat can follow when she likes, 
and dictate what terms you will if she ever 
reaches Pamira. There'll be nothing to hurt 
her once she gets there, not after about four 
to-morrow afternoon." 

At Pamira all was excitement. The 
Devastator would sail next day to bombard 
the town of Yillambrosa, unless, indeed, 
the Roxalians climbed down meanwhile and 
agreed to the impossible conditions offered 
them, in spite of the impudent defiance 
which had this day been hurled in the face 
of Pamira by the Roxalian minister. 

" The poor devils," as Karl Edouard 
expressed it, "had declared war to save their 
pride," and his Yankee son-in-law had re- 
joined : " They may declare war, but I bet 
my life they can't wage it. What ! against 
this yer Devastator ? They're going to climb 
down soon's they see her, father-in-law, 
that's sure as death." 

Fortunately for them, most of the crew of 
the Devastator were ashore being entertained 
by the marine authorities before entering 
upon the arduous duty of steaming to 
Yillambrosa ; for, about three o'clock, the 
harbour quays being then crammed with 
spectators anxious to see the beautiful cruiser 
which had but to appear in order to dictate 

terms to the bold enemy who had dared to 
hurl defiance in her face, a stupendous, 
blinding, desolating, and most amazing thing 
happened before their very eyes. 

Suddenly, without warning, a,s men stood 
and admired her lines, her rig, and her arma- 
ment, the bows of the vessel seemed to part 
asunder and fly disunited to all points of the 
compass. At the same time water, steam, 
fire (as it seemed), and a bewildering mass 
of fragments of copper, wood, steel, and 
what not rose like a huge column into the 
air. The great ship reared her stern and 
bent forward, as though she would bury her 
tortured bows in the cool waters. Deeper 
and deeper went her head, and higher and 
higher reared her stern ; down and down 
went the bows, until at hist they ceased to 
sink, and the Devastator stood upon her 
head, half in the water and half out, like a 
duck feeding among the weeds. The war 
had begun, and it was over. 

When the citizens of Yalparaiso came 
down to breakfast next morning, those 
of them whose windows gave to the harbour 
were amazed to see that the Cormorant lay at 
her old moorings. They rubbed their eyes 
and looked again. Then they went down to 
join the crowd that stood and gaped on the 
quay, staring at the little vessel, which 
seemed to have returned from the Ewigkeit 
as mysteriously as it had disappeared. 
Chillingworth was undergoing an interview 
at the time. 

" The beggarly thing ran away with us," 
he was explaining. " Where did she take us 
to ? Heaven knows, my good man ; how 
should I ? It all looks the same at the 
bottom of the sea. I know what was 
wrong, but that's my business. It has 
taken a week to repair, that's all I can 
tell you. , She won't do it again. Look a 
bit pale, do we ? No wonder ; you breathe 
bottled air instead of draught for a whole 
week, and see what you look like ! " 

The thing w^as a seven days' wonder and 
is still talked of in Chili. As for Roxalia, 
sliB behaved generously. It may be that 
those who sailed. for Pamira in the old gun- 
boat were so devoutly grateful to have 
arrived safely at their destination that they 
were not inclined to deal harshly with their 
helpless enemies. They dictated terms, 
indeed, but they were mild ones ; and the 
Pamirans — chastened by misfortune and dis- 
appointment — appreciated their generosity. 

As for Prince Consort Heavyside, he re- 
mained thoughtful for several days. It was 
only when he read a certain paragraph 



copied from a Chilian paper that he seemed 
to awake from his reverie and stupor, 

" By snakes, I have it ! " he exclaimed. 

" Of course, why '' Heavyside did not 

finish his sentence, but he took the first 
available train to Valparaiso. 

Chillingworth more than half expected his 
visitor. He received him with absolute 
mng froid^ though, if the truth had been 
known, his heart did sink a little at the 
sight of the tall Yankee millionaire ; for 
though he knew nothing could be proved 
against him, even accusations unsupported 
by evidence are apt to be awkward at times. 

But Heavyside extended his hand. 

"Young man, I'm glad to see you safe 
home," he said. " Had a pleasant trip ? 
They said down our w^ay you was lost." 

"Well, it was touch and go, certainly," 
said Chillingworth. 

" Lucky you didn't run into anything — 
cruisers, or obstacles of that sort," said 
Heavyside ; " might have been awkward, 
eh ? " 

" A wk warder for them than for nie," said 
Chillingworth, w^incing just the merest trifle. 
" But I kept clear of obstacles." 

" AVal, I like you, young man," continued 
the millionaire. " And none the worse 
because you've euchred me this timCc You 
come ashore now and chew a bit with me, 
and we'll see if w^e can't deal." 

Chillingworth finished that interview 
Minister of Marine for Pamira, and with 
an order in his pockeb for five submarines. 

All this took place a year ago. Since that 
time Roxalia has been annexed by Karl 
Edouard of Pamira, and there is at this 
moment a promising quarrel brewing between 
Pamira and its big neighbour Palladia. 
Prince Consort Heavyside intends, he says, 
to run the three States in one. Certainly, 
Palladia's three old - cruisers and her second 
class battleship, built in 1871, will do little 
to prevent him, with Chillingworth at the head 
of Maritime Affairs, and five little devils of 
submarines of the Cormorant type playing 
about in Pamiran waters ! 


A BUNCH of blossoms came to mc to-day, 
And as I bent my face above the bloom, 

The walls about me shadowed and my room 
Grew dim and faded silently away * 
Before the magic of one odorous spray. 

O strange, familiar perfume of a flower 

Which I had never seen until that hour ! 
O wondrous memory which sleeping lay, 

Deep in my soul, till wakened by the call 
Of that one whiff of sweetness ; for I saw 

A fair old house, a sombre, twilit hall, 
A garden riotous, where sweet will was law, — 

Where once I must have wandered long ago, — 

I, who, bound here, of cities only know ! 


]s[oTE.— 27ie Editor regrets that an erroneous title was attached to one of the illustrations to 
the article on ''English Peers who are Foreign Princes;' in the May Number of the Windsor 
Magazine. The illustration described as the portrait of Mrs. Jodrell, who is the Countess Napier 
St, Vincent in the Portuguese peerage, shotdd have been given as the portrait of the late Mrs. George 
Grey Butler, of Eivart Park, Wooler, Northumberland, who was Maria, Countess St. Paul, m the 
Holy Roman Empire. 


By C. J. L. CLARKE. 

Photographs by Messrs. Clarke and Hyde. 

MOTOE-CARS are no novelty now, and 
even in the most secluded spots of 
Merry England the yeoman or farm- 
labourer would scarcely take the trouble to 
look up to see one of these vehicles glide 
past him as he toiled on at his plough or 
tended his contented cattle. 

This, indifference is bred 
with the sight of automobiles 
standing that familiarity, it 
that not only 
the countryman, 
but a very large 
majority of the 
townsmen, too, 
little dream of 
the many capa- 
bilities of the 

of familiarity 
; but notwith- 
safe to say 





horseless carriages, as they have been appro- 
priately called, and the unique qualifications 
they possess. 

As a racing car is necessarily built with 
an enormous reserve of power, and is capable 
of the highest rate of speed amongst motor- 
cars, it will enable us better to follow out 
some of the remarkable facts embodied in 
motors if we take one car as an example ; and 
since the Napier cars, which have been 
selected to represent English engineering in 
the great International Race in Ireland for 
the Gordon-Bennett Challenge Cup, must be 
taken as the highest results of British motor 
building, w^e will draw our deductions from 
one of these cars. 

If we were to cast about and examine 
every little curiosity in the manufacture of a 
racing motor-car, we could arrange an array 

of remarkable facts which would be astound- 
ing to anyone ; but as these particulars would 
be in many instances highly technical, we 
will consider the motor-car broadly from its 
capabilities as a complete machine. As an 
instance of these remarkable details, however, 
we will just examine the electrical appliances 
which supply the spark which ignites the 
charge of gas in the firing-chamber. The 
electric power is drawn generally from an 
accumulator, and, small though this is, 
yet it could continuously ring a bell 
of the gigantic proportions shown in 
our illustration, for nine hours. The 
current which performs this is of very 
low voltage, registering only just over 
four volts; but before it can accom- 
plish its duty in the motor, it is passed 




through an electrical coil, with the result that 
the voltage is increased to some thousands, 
while a flaming spark fully an inch long 
will jump between the terminals of wires 
connected to this coil if they are held apart. 

With these two instances we will leave the 
details and confine ourselves to the racing 
motor as a complete vehicle. 

That ever-ready and faithful servant the 
railway locomotive has to cede the palm for 




power and speed to the new vehicles. While 
the locomotive can be reckoned to be tra- 
velling quite up to its average when it is 
speeding along at sixty-five miles an hour, 
the modern racing motor makes light work 
of such speed, and soars to the enormous 
pace of close on ninety 
miles an hour. If we 
put the railway engine 
against the motor-car ^ 

at hill-climbing, our old 
friend has again to give 
way to his youthful 
rival, for the grade of 
one in three up which 
a racing motor can 
easily climb is a matter 
of impossibility to the 
ordinary railway engine. 
How, then, does this 
wonderful innovation 
compare with the horse ? For the credit of 
the horse, don't let us compare the two for 
speed or power ; but since legislation has been 
busy in allotting the highest rate at which 
motors may travel, and presumably this is 
done to ensure the safety of the other users 
of the roads, why not thrash out actually 
which is the most likely to be dangerous? 
Well, then, 

we will call - ... . .:: . . ,. , .„ ,..- 
a halt of 
both vehi- 
cles, a motor- 
car and a 
wagon, when 
they are 
travelling at 
twelve miles 
an hour ; and 
while the car 
stops dead in 
a trifle over 
one yard, it 
takes the 
driver of the 
wagon ten 
yards to 
come to a 
standstill. It 
is a matter 
of the sim- 

OF 1 IN 3— 


dead heat for the distinction of being the 
only two known creations of man which have 
completed a continuous run without a single 
pause or stop for the amazing distance of one 
thousand miles. When the immense storage 
capacities and the limitless room available on 
a large steamship and 
the space curtailed 
almost to cramping in 
the tiny motor-car are 
taken into considera- 
tion, no two opinions 
could be held as to 
which of the two 
carried off the palm 
for a remarkable per- 

A modern motor- 
car, too, establishes a 
record in engineering ; 
for it is the lightest 
vehicle ever made which is capable of 
developing the power and attaining the speed 
which these astonishing inventions have done ; 
and if we compare it with the animal world, 
the powerful elephant is a mere mouse in 
strength against a modern racing motor-car, 
whilst the animal's enormous bulk w^ould be 
sufficient to weigh up a board with at least 

three motor- 
cars on it, 
while one of 
them would 
be a com- 
against the 
bulky ele- 

The terri- 
ble power of 
a modern 
racing motor 
is hard in- 
deed to com- 
prehend ; and 
small though 
the engines 
are, they yet 
produce a 
force which 
one would 

plest logic to 
point to the more dangerous vehicle of the 
two, so far as pedestrians and other users 
of the road are concerned. 

If we push our considerations of the 
motor-car even to comparins; it with one of 
our battleships or an ocean liner, they run a 

almost be 
excused for doubting. It will probably be 
easier to form an idea of what the power of 
a racing motor is if we remember that many 
of the ordinary cars we see travelling gaily 
along, with four passengers, at a pace quite 
up to the legal limit of twelve nn'les an hour. 






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facts are connected with tlie motor-car of 
to-day ; and extremely powerful though the 
engines of a racing car are, they are yet as 
easily controlled as the most docile steed. 
Notwithstanding the furious speeds of which 
the cars are capable, they can be made to 
crawl along in the slowest traffic in obedience 
to the slightest touch from an experienced 
driver, and the fragile levers which arc 
sufficient to curb or rouse the giant engines 
look almost like parts of some toy, so slender 
are they. 

The flash with which the modern motor- 
car has jumped into popularity, and the brief 
period which has been sufficient to develop 


whole hundred miles will 
occupy less than half a day. 
Now, how much will it cost 
for a horse to do the same 
journey, and how long will 
it take on the way ? The corn 
alone for sucli a journey will 
cost fifteen shillings, which is 
well over twice the cost of 
the use of a motor-car, and 
the animal will consume 
seventeen buckets of water ; 
but this is not all, for the 
horse will not accomplish 
the journey, pulling an equal 
load with the motor, in less 
than four days. What a 
glaring difference is apparent, 
and again the motor-car is 
premier ! 

Many other remarkable 

mTn:;:£X.^MS::^i j^ ^^ mm^ ^m 

rhoio by} 

[Cribb, Southsea. 




the present-day machine 
from a crude start, is so 
remarkable that the details 
of the rapid strides of the 
motor - manufacturing in- 
dustry alone teem with 
interesting facts. 

Although the idea of 
self - propelled vehicles is 
hundreds of years old, it 
was not until some few 
years ago that the in- 
vention of a system of 
explosion engines, drawing 
their power from the vapour 



on what has been dnbbed 
" Emancipation Day," few 
arrived at " London by 
the Sea," and it would 
be safe to say that hardly 
one car did the run with- 
out giving the driver a 
good day's work and 
anxiety ; but such rapid 
strides have been made 
in improving the vehicles 
that a motor-car could 
scarcely be purchased to- 
day which would not 
make such light work of 
a similar run that a 
comfortable lunch might 
be enjoyed at Brighton 
without the necessity of 
early rising to accom- 
plish it. 


given off by petroleum spirit, first 
made the motor-car of to-day a 

Continental countries were years ahead of 
England when, some seven years ago, the 
passing of a Bill to allow the horseless 
vehicles to be used on English roads was 
celebrated by a run from London to 

Of the three-score or so of every type of 
motor-vehicle which took part in this trip, 

HAWK ... 
MOTOR ... 
CYCLE ... 






To the racing car and the lessons learned 
from it we must give a great deal of the 
credit of these improvements, so that all the 
expense and danger incurred in building and 
using these vehicles are not in vain. 

The motor-car can fairly be said to have 
provided the grandest sport imaginable, and 
the winner of a great race is sought after by 
many a wealthy 
sportsman. Record 
price is difficult to 
estimate, but the 
sum of five thou- 
sand pounds would 
be a low figure, and 
one that has been 
frequently paid for 
a car with a record. 
The sport has 
its dark side, and 
the use of these 
enormously power- 
ful cars is fraught 
with great danger, 
and the records of 
their glories are 
blotted with many 
tragedies. While 
speedy cars have 




caused a number of deaths and serious 
accidents, there are yet many remarkable 
instances of the drivers and passengers being 
thrown from motor-cars, travelling at high 
speed, and yet having escaped any serious 
injuries, and amongst the many other virtues 
of the ordinary motor-car we may include 
their undoubted safety. 

" Wait until I can get a good motor-car 
for £50 ! " is a remark one frequently hears ; 
but wait it will be for many, many years. 
All the possibilities of the modern motor-car 
are not attained except at the cost of the 
greatest care and industry. From thousands 
and thousands of component parts, these 
vehicles are gradually built up piece by piece, 
and before they are ready for the users they 
are tested, tried, and proved by hours of 
careful attention. Each operation in their 
manufacture is tedious and requires the 
utmost skill. Parts have to be turned to 
one- thousandth part of an inch, and joint-s 
made so that the surfaces are so perfectly 
fitted that even a volatile gas under com- 
pression cannot find an outlet. One instance 
alone will be sufficient to show that a motor 
is the result of excellent workmanship and 
careful finish. The faces of the inside 
of the cylinders have to be polished until 
they have a surface as smooth as the finest 
plate-glass ; and to produce this, a mop dusted 
with a special poAvder is worked up and down 

in the cylinders at six hundred strokes per 
minute ; and so important is this little detail 
alone, that the mops are kept continuously 
at work for one hundred and twenty hours 
before the surface is judged as satisfactory. 

The alarming fact of what ninety miles 
an hour, at which speed racing motors 
travel, really means, can probably best be 
realised when we consider that this speed, 
if maintained, would enable anyone to go 
" round the world " in considerably less 
than a fortnight, or, to be more correct, in a 
trifle under eleven days. 

Of course, these are fancy cars travelling at 
fancy speeds, but they show what can really 
be accomplished. Few people would care to 
own one of these monsters, and fewer stilJ 
could manage one if they had it ; but it is 
from the virtues and faults of these cars that 
the present-day reliable motor-car has de- 
veloped. Racing speeds are only attained at 
an enormous increase in the powder of the 
engines — an increase out of all proportion to 
the value realised. If we take the little car 
on the right of our last illustration, as 
representing the power necessary to travel at 
twelve miles an hour, the next car as the 
comparative power necessary to do forty 
miles an hour, and the large motor-car on 
the left as the power required to do eighty 
miles an hour, we shall readily see by what 






giant strides it is necessary to crowd on the 
power of the engines if we would attain 
the pride of rapid flight. 

There is a fascination ahout travehing 
on a motor-car which is born of the very 
powers described. Practically speaking, 
there is nothing that will pass one of the 
new vehicles, and a touch of the slender 
levers which serve to control these giants 
is sufficient to send the car flying along at 
a pace which brings a rain of tears to the 
eyes and bites the face of the drivers with 
a rude blast even on a fairly warm day. 

Despite all drawbacjfs, the motor-car has 
forced itself forward in public opinion ; and 

although the day when horses will be rare 
is not a probability in the next ten years, yet 
by reason of their very quality and cheapness 
in working, the new vehicles must surely 
take the place of our four-footed friends. 

This article has been arranged to impress 
in the most convincing way the broad 
qualities of the motor-car and the many 
surprising things it can accomplish. There 
can be no doubt that, however familiar we 
may get with them, motor-cars will stand as 
one of the marvels of our times, and few, if 
any, inventions the present generation will 
see will be so loaded with astounding 
qualities and extraordinary virtues. 

■^^,%^:r^'^'^- ''' 


'r^'-^ ^^V'^^T^^.^ 

80 MILES. 40 MILES. 12 MILES. 


pEARLESS he lived, 

As fearless he died ; 
Here let his sword 
Rust by his side. 

Prayers for the living, 
Praise for the dead; 

Here let him lie 
In his last bed. 

Died as a soldier should, 
Face to the foe ; 

Foreknowing all hope 
Was lost long ago. 

Stars for his windows, 
Sky for his roof. 

And for his dirge 
The galloping hoof. 

Nor triumph nor failure 
Shall move him now; 

Bind the green laurel 
Upon his white brow. 




S TUBES showed me into tlie red draw- 
I ing-room, the littb oue, because there 
was a fire there, and said that Lady 
EHnor would be down soon. I found Sibyl 
and the Persian cat informally occupying 
the hearthrug. The cat moved away with 
a distrustful backward glance, but Sibyl, 
abandoning for the moment a huge and mis- 
shapen lump of something which would seem 
to have been toffee, gave me a very sticky hand. 

" I'd offer you some toffee," said she, in 
a tone of reckless generosity, "but I — I'm 
afraid I've licked it all over." 

" Oh, not any, thanks," said I hastily. 
" Not that I should object to your having — 
er — licked it ; but, you see, I'd just had a 
large quantity of it before coming here. 
I — I'm very apt to stop in at — at a shop 
and eat toffee," I concluded wildly. 

Sibyl gave a sigh of all too obvious relief, 
though mingled with sadness. 

" I don't'have it often," she suggested ; 
" not so very often." 

" You shall have it every day," I cried ; 
" pounds of it. The idea of not allowing you 
all the tofPee you want ! It's barbarous." 

Sibyl wagged a melancholy head. 

" I'm not allowed half enough," she de- 
clared. " This — this morning — I stole some 
from Elinor — only it wasn't toffee, it was 
chocolate. It hurts yet," she grieved, stirring 
about uneasily upon the hearthrug. 

" Oh ! " said I, leaning forward sym- 
pathetically, " tummy ? " 

" That's not where I'm smacked," said 
Sibyl with dignity. There was a painful 
silence for quite a minute or two. The 
Persian cat, having reconnoitred from the 
middle distance, at last returned and sat 
down with an absent air upon the lump of 
toffee, but was indignantly pushed away by 
the proprietor of the same. 

" Why did the cat go away. Sib, when I 
came in ? " I inquired. 

" Flossie Bray — I mean. Lord Brayton — 
was here this afternoon," said Sibyl signifi- 

" The devil ! " said I. " I would say, the 
deuce ! " I apologised. 

* Copyright, 1903, by the S. S. McClure Co., in the 
United States of America. 

'* Oh, yen needn't mind me," declared 
Sibyl. " Bad uses — language, sometimes — 
quite often. He called me a little devil the 
other day." 

" Xo ! " I cried in a shocked tone. " He 
couldn't have, really I 

" He did," insisted Sibyl. 

" I don't want to seem curious," said I in 
a deprecatory way, " but — but what had you 
been doing, Sib ? " 

" Just sailing boats in his bath," said Sibyl. 
" And — and one of them sank to the bottom, 
and I expect I forgot to take it out. Dad 
must have sat down in the bath the very 
first thing," she continued reflectively. 

" Oh ! " said I. " I think I understand. 
Of course that was some provocation, wasn't 
it ? But we're leaving our muttons — I mean 
our Lord Brayton. I take it he's not fond 
of cats." 

" He tried to kick Frou Frou," cried Sibyl 
resentfully. " I paid him, though ; I did 
things to his hat." 

" Good old Sib ! " said I. 

" I'd much rather Elinor would marry 
you than Flossie Brayton," observed Sibyl, 
attacking the toffee. 

" Thank you, Sib," said I gratefully. " So 
would I — I've told her so no end of times." 

" He was kissing her hand to-day," con- 
tinued Sibyl with disgust. " That was when 
he tried to kick Frou Frou, just because 
Frou Frou rubbed up against his legs in a 
perfectly friendly way." 

" Kissing her hand, was he ? " I growled. 
" The beast ! Kissing her — Sibyl, my dear, I 
can't allow you to tell me — er — family secrets. 
You know it's not proper. Eeally it isn't." 

" Rot ! " said Sibyl elegantly. " And he 
put a ring on it, too — her hand, you know. 
What would he be doing that for ? She 
wouldn't let him kiss her, though. J She said : 
' Not yet. Give me a little -' " ' 

" Sibyl," said I firmly, " that is enough, 
I mustn't listen to you. Elin — Lady Elinor 
wouldn't like it at all. Ah, Sib, Sib, it's 
a bitter world ! I can't see any good 
in it." 

" What can't you see any good in ? " 
inquired Lady Elinor from the doorway. I 
rose and made a bow. 

" I can't see any good," said I, " in not 



giving Sib all the sweets she wants ; cutting 
her off that way only leads to immorality." 

Lady Elinor shook her head. 

" It's very bad for Sibyl's tummy," said 

" Her tummy ? " I inquired. " Why, T 

should have said it was rather " But a 

gentleman never betrays a confidence, and I 
held my peace. 

Tjady Elinor sat down in the big chair 
before the fire and leaned forward with her 
elbows upon her knees. I tried to catch a 
glimpse of her left hand, but it was hidden 
in the folds of her gown. 

"Sib, darling," said«she presently, "your 
hands are very, very shocking. Don't you 
want to go and have them washed — as a 
special favour to me ? " 

Sibyl swallowed the last of the toffee and 
departed, with the Persian cat under one 

" I told him that Flossie Brayton tried 
to kick Frou Frou," she said from the 

"Ah !" cried Lady Elinor, looking up at 
me very quickly. " So Sib told you ? " 

"Yes," said I. "Yes, Sib said that— 
that Brayton had been here to-day. Ah ! is 
it true — is it true, Elinor ? " 

Lady Elinor raised her left hand from the 
folds of her skirt, and the ring was there, 
on the third finger— a ruby between two 
diamonds. It looked like Brayton, just the 
showy sort of thing Brayton would choose. 

" Why, yes, Teddy," said Lady Elinor, 
ratlier low ; " yes, it's true. You're the 
first one I've told. Won't you say some- 
thing nice to me, Teddy ? " 

"I hope," said I, looking into the fire, 
" that you'll always have all the toffee you 
want, so that you won't have to steal it, 
like poor Sib — and be smacked. I hope 
your life will be as beautiful as you are, 
Elinor. I hope your future will be an 
illuminated page, and your memory a blank 
one. I hope you'll be as happy as ever 
you've dreamed of being." 

" Oh, no, no, Ted ! " cried Lady Elinor 
softly. "Not that. I shan't be as happy 
as I've dreamed of being, so don't hope 
that — if you really did hope it. As happy 
as I've dreamed of being ! Ah ! rather 
not ! You don't know what a girl dreams, 
Teddy ; you're nothing but a man, you see." 

" Oh ! I've had my dreams," said I, " and 
cherished them somewhat. It appears I 
must forget them — or try to. No, I don't 
fancy you will be as happy as you've dreamed. 
It's a pity." 

"All, Ted, but 
-and very dear 
his great, great 

" Yes," sighed Lady Elinor. " Ah, yes ! 
it's a pity. Still, dreams never come true, 
do they, Teddy ? " 

" I've heard that theory advanced," said I, 
" but I don't recollect ever to have seen it 

" Why, if they could come true," said 
Elinor, in a half -whisper. " If they 
could " 

" You wouldn't be wearing that very 
handsome ring ? " I suggested. 

" No," said Lady EUnor, " I shouldn't 
be wearing Bray ton's ring. I shouldn't be 
doing what they all want me to do — what 
they all expect me to do." 

" All ? " I objected. 

Lady Elinor turned her head with a little 
sweet, half -sad smile, and I took a firm hold 
upon the arms of my chair. 

" All," she murmured, 
one — one very foolish and- 
dissenter — who's dear for 
folly, and foolish because — why, because he's 
such a dear." 

"But whose opinion is of no weight," 
said I. 

" W^hose opinion," said Lady Elinor, 
" must be of no weight, must be erased with 
— with the other — dear things to make that 
memory page blank." 

" Ah, that memory page ! " said I. 

"It's the sweetest of all the pages," she 
murmured, " the very sweetest." 

" If only it needn't be erased," said I. 

" Erased it must be," declared Lady Elinor 
firmly. " Oh, Teddy, Teddy ! weren't they 
good old days, those days ? How did we 
ever come to stray out of Paradise, Teddy, 
after we'd gone so far in ? Is there a little 
masked gate in the wall that we opened by 
chance, that we thought would lead us still 
farther in ? Were we too busy looking at 
'each other to see where our feet were 
turned ? " 

"We didn't stray out," said I, with my 
head in my hands. " We were chucked out 
— bv the main gate. Ask your mother how, 

But Lady Elinor was looking into the fire 
with a little far-away smile, and her face, 
with the soft red glow thrown up across it, 
was the most beautiful thing that a man 
ever saw\ 

" Of course we were only children," she 
cried softly ; " but such dear children, Ted. 
Why mayn't people be children always ? 
Why must they grow up ? " 

" They needn't grow up," said I. 

" Why must they be taught wisdom ? " 

*' ' I think she'd like her head where — it belonged ! ' " 



demanded Elinor. "Why mayn't they be 
left in their belief that love is the only 
thing ? " 

" Love is the only thing, Ehnor/' said I. 
" Wisdom's a lie ; love is the only thing." 

Lady Elinor shook her head. 

" The wise people say ' No,' Teddy," she 
murmured. "They tell me that love is all 
dreams, castles in Spain — and that there's 
no happiness in Spain." 

" I should make you happier than ever 
Bray ton will," said I bitterly. It was a 
contemptible thing to say, for she was 
wearing Brayton's rinof. 

Elinor gave a little, low, gasping cry, and 
her eyes closed for an instant. 

" He — tried to — kiss me — to-day I " she 
whispered presently. " I nearly— screamed ! 
Ah, yes, yes, Ted ! you would make me 
happier. Is happiness all, Teddy ? " 

" Upon my faith," said I. 

" They say not," said Elinor. " Oh ! • I 
should — I shall become used to — Brayton 
after — after a while. He's a good sort, Ted. 
He loves me, I think, and — and he has a 
great deal of money. I shall be a power, 
shan't I?" 

" Is that enough ? " said I. 

"It isn't what I'd dreamed, Ted," she 
said. "I'd dreamed — oh, such a life ! No, 
power, Teddy; no great position — ^just 
happiness ! Just two young, foolish, dear 
people, who loved each other madly — 
worshipped each other ! — just their life to- 
gether ; a selfish life, I suppose, for no one 
else came into it at all. There were just 
the two of — of them, and nothing else 
counted in the least. They never grew up, 
you know, my two people ; they wouldn't 
let each other grow up. They were infants, 
always, about most things. Oh ! weren't 
they dears ? I'd dreamed all sorts of 
beautiful little particulars, details, about 
them — my people in Spain ! What they'd 
do, and what they'd say, and how they'd 
act towards each other ; how they'd sit 
before the fire of a nasty day or an evening 
in — in just one chair, not such a very big 
chair. Fires are so comfy, and make you 
want to be nice and say nice things. 
They're so noddy and sputtery and bless- 
you-my-childreny. People couldn't row 
over an open fire, could they ? Sometimes 
they'd talk — when they w^anted to — and say 
the things they wanted, and sometimes 
they'd stop, and understand each other 
quite as well— that's a test. Oh ! and I — • 
I think she'd like her head where — it 
belonged ; and if he should happen to kiss 

her, there'd be no one but the firelight to 
see, and it would never, never tell. It 
would be very quiet, and the glow from 
the fire would be red on their faces, and 
they would not want another thing in all 
the world. She'd slip down, I think, to 
the rug, and lean her cheek against his 
hand and look into the embers, and his 
other hand would be smoothing her hair 
as she loved it smoothed. Ah, Teddy, 
Teddy, wake me ! I'm dreaming again, and 
I mustn't, I mustn't ! Bring me back from 
Spain, Teddy. I mustn't wander there. 
That's the life I've dreamed of. Isn't it 
mad ? That isn't what's before me." 

"No," said I. "No, Elinor, that isn't 
what's before you. Have you thought of 
what you've to look forward to ? Listen. 
Brayton is thirty-nine — nearly forty. He's 
growing a bit stout, Ehnor. He'll be fat 
in fiYQ years, and he's undeniably bald at 
the tonsure. He likes his dinner — he even 
loves it — and for a couple of hours after- 
wards he's — he's somnolent. I don't like 
talking about men behind their backs, but 
this is a time for plain speaking. Brayton 
w^ouldn't care for sitting a deux before the 
fire. That wouldn't amuse him. He'd fall 
asleep and spoil things. No, he'd be off at 
his club of an evening. Brayton wouldn't 
fit into a castle in Spain ; he's a bit — solid. 
Still, he'd be nice to you — if you didn't 
interfere with him. He'd be proud to have 
you at the head of his table ; you would 
ornament it, Elinor, and I dare say you'd 
get on together in a very friendly, peaceable 
sort of fashion — in England, not Spain." 

Elinor dropped her face into her arms, 
and her bowed shoulders quivered and shook. 

" Ah, no, no ! " she moaned. " Ah, no, 
no, Teddy ! Not that. I — I can't bear it ! " 

Then, after a long time, she looked up once 
more. Her beautiful face was very flushed, 
and there were tears wet upon her cheeks. 

" It's impossible," said she. " I can't do 
it. I was mad even to fancy for an instant 
that I could bear such a life after — after 

She pulled the diamond and ruby ring 
from her finger suddenly and threw it from 
her as if it burned her hand. It rolled into 
the gloom beyond the circle of firelight, the 
three gems flashing as they went. 

"Let them say what they will," cried 
Lady Elinor. " Oh, take me away to Spain, 
Teddy ! " 

Then I stood up before her and held out 
my arms. 

" Come to Spain, Elinor I " said I. 


By B. a. CLARKE. ^^ 

the Coal Merchants' 
School in High Hol- 
born, Mr. Gange 
combined the duties 
of the detention- 
room with the care 
of a preparatory 
class. In the latter, 
twenty or thirty in- 
credibly small boys 
were coached for the entrance examination 
to the Lower First. A few aspired as high as 
the lowest class but one. . The preparatory 
boys did not have the same hours as the 
school. The youngsters were at work all 
the time the school boys w^ere undergoing 
their punishment, occupying the front forms. 
Mr. Gange was tliirty years old, degreeless, 
prospectless, and wholly without ambition. 
You knew that directly you noticed his 
shifting, watery eyes. His hair was straw- 
coloured, his face pimpled, and he had no 
perceptible eyelashes. He was quite unfitted 
for his calling, and recognised this without 
shame. His pupils could take any liberties 
with him. For this reason the detention 
boys behaved particularly well. They watched 
the preparatory boys and their safe escapades 
with disdain, and when they happened to 
catch the eye of a trifler, sternly motioned him 
to go on with his work. The tradition of 
the school was to treat Mr. Gange with lofty 
friendliness, and it was generally believed 
that the detention hours were oases in his 
life. Mewed up all day with these paltry 
infants, how he must welcome the arrival of 
boys of nobler sort ! It was thought a 
kindly act to stroll up to his desk for five 
minutes' chat. The idea was that it did him 
good with his pupils to be seen conversing 
with boys half-way up the school upon equal 
terms. The usual topic was the progress of 
boys in the upper classes, who, being exempt 
from detention, had soared beyond Mr. 
Gange's ken. 

" I was talking at lunch to Saunders, of the 
Fifth. I told him I was going to see you this 
afternoon, and he asked to be remembered." 

* Copyright, 1903, by Ward, Lock and Co., Limited, 
in the United States of America. 


"That would be W. J.Saunders, I suppose ? 
It seems only yesterday that he used to come 
in here. He took a double promotion, if I 
am not mistaken, from the Upper Third, 
with B. J. Klopstein, an old pupil of mine. 
I hope to see both Klopstein and Saunders 
in the Sixth." 

(Perhaps the boys were right, and it was 
pleasant to Mr. Gange to be kept in touch 
with the great world.) 

It was the misfortune of Walter Tyrell to 
break this kindly tradition. He had no 
intention of so doing, but was led away by 
indignation at seeing two of Mr. Gange's 
pupils talking. He ordered them to desist. 
One of the delinquents cheeked liim, and 
when he walked forward and slapped his 
head, the preparatory boy turned, and struck 
him, a member of the school, with sacri- 
legious fist. For a wonder Mr. Gange took 
note of the occurrence. 

" How dare you leave your seat, sir 1 " he 
screamed at Walter. "Go back immediately ! " 

Walter did not wish to be rude, but to 
obey a preparatory-master seemed lowering. 
On the spur of the moment he could 
think of nothing better than feigning 
deafness, and, with hand to ear, asking the 
master, respectfully, to speak louder. 

Mr. Gange descended from his desk and 
boxed his ears. The boy returned the 

Mr. Gange hesitated, and then walked 
away. It was dangerous work striking a 
boy, and forbidden by the head-master. It 
would be very much safer just to let the 
matter drop. 

Walter Tyrell went home fancying himself 
something of a hero. 

At Moorgate Street Station it happened 
that the cause of the disturbance, a ten-year- 
old named Eeginald Cook, was seated in a 
railway compartment when Walter entered 
it with some friends. 

The child's lips went white, but he stood 
up and doubled his soft fists, prepared to die 
game. Now, Walter was a good two years 
older, besides being heavier for his age, and 
there was small chance for him of credit 
from the encounter. 

" All right, big 'un," he said, " I know you 



hit me last ; but jour master took it up for 
you, and you saw what I did to Jiimy 

" You have a nerve," said the small boy, 
wath so flattering an emphasis upon the verb 
that Walter's heart was won, and Master 
Reggie, who had looked for a painful fight, 
found himself treated as a friend ; and being 
allowed an equal share in a rough and 
tumble, he made part of the journey very 
pleasantly under the seat. 

" They were four to our three, or we would 
have beaten them," said Walter, when the 
party broke up. 

He, Reggie, and an ink-stained boy in 
spectacles w^ere traveling further than the 

" We'd take them on again ? " 

" Rather," said Reggie. 

" knj time you see us in a carriage, get 
in," said Walter. 

His new friend explained that he did not 
live in this direction, but was on his way to 
tea with an aunt. His home was near 
Clarence Park. 

" What sort of a place is Clarence Park ?" 
asked Walter doubtfully. 

"The cricket-pitches are just bare patches, 
but some fine clubs play there. Have you 
ever heard of a club called the ' Duke of 
Wellington ' ? " 

" Never." 

" Well, I am captain of it. See here ! " 
He took from his satchel a copy of the 
North London Sentinel. 

" There is a bit about it here." He 
pointed to an item among the cricket 

Walter read aloud : " ' Silver Star ' versus 
'Duke of Wellington.' This match was 
played in Clarence Park last Saturday after- 
noon, and was won by the ' Silver Star ' by 
nine runs. For the winners. Smith batted 
well and Jones bowled well ; and for the 
losers, Johnson bowled well and Reginald 
Cook batted well." 

" Reginald Cook is me," said the child 

The detailed score showed that the com- 
bined innings of the " Duke of Wellington " 
fell shorfc of forty, Reggie's contribution 
being two threes. 

The schoolboys laughed, but nevertheless 
they were impressed. Except in the pro- 
motion lists, their names had never figured 
in print. 

" What made them say that about your 
batting well ? " 

" I wrote it myself," said the preparatory 
boy, as i f that explained everything. " You 

play for the ' Duke of Wellington,' and I'll 
put in a bit about you." 

Walter laughed uproariously. The sugges- 
tion was in every way ridiculous, but he was 
sorry it had not been delayed until the 
next station, when his schoolfellow got out. 

" I don't always write the first bit like 
that. Sometimes I only give one name on 
each side instead of two, and say the match 
was won by the fine all-round play of one 
chap, and lost by the fine all-round play of 

" Jolly for the other chap ! " said the boy 
with the ink stains. " I tell you what it is, 
my lad : you are a genius, and ought to be 
taking the composition class in the place 
of Old xindrews." 

Walter did not like this wholesale ridicnle. 
It w^as easy to pick holes, but the critic had 
never written for the Press, and perhaps did 
not know the rules. 

"You'd be jolly glad to see your writings 
in the newspaper," he said. 

" No, I wouldn't." 

" Yes, you would. How about that account 
of your holidays you sent to the School 
Magazine, without any stops ? " 

The ink-stained boy turned crimson. 
Referring to his literary ambitions was 
touching him upon the raw. He was not 
sorry that the train was running into the 

" Ta-ta,Tyrell ! " he said. "Be kind to him, 
and perhaps he'll give you a place in the 
' Duke of Wellington,' and we shall read in 
the paper that your fine all-round play has 
lost them a match." 

" Jealous little beast ! " said Walter, when 
he and Reggie were alone. " Of course, I 
could not play for your club ; I'd be too big." 

" Not you ! Why, sometimes men play." 
T}iis was true. Loafing about the park are 
men who will push themselves into any game, 
and so incredibly inept are they that their 
presence on a child's side does not necessarily 
decide the result. There is always great 
clapping when the man is dismissed ; but he 
is scarcely any better than liis playfellows, 
and, strange to say, can hit but very little 
harder. So Walter promised to play on the 
following Saturday against that formidable 
combination, the " Clarence Amateurs." 
He did not mention his purpose at home, 
not desiring witnesses, for he had a suspicion 
that his deeds would look more imposing 
in the cold simplicity of print. 

On the all-eventful afternoon, Walter 
found awaiting him at the park gates, Reggie, 
eight other boys, and a Mr. Hout. The last 



was a stout, red -faced man, in a faded frock- 
coat and carpet slippers, who had played for 
the Australians when first-class cricket was 
better than it is to-day. Fast round-arm 
bow^ling was his forte^ but on Saturdays he 
could not be put on. Between the point of a 
match to the right of one, and the short-leg 
of a match to the left, there is on Saturdays 
but a narrow channel, and Mr. Hout could 

"Being allowed an equal share in a rough and tumble, he made part of the journey 
very pleasantly under the seat." 

not find it. A fielder resents a jolt in the 
back from a bowler in another game, and is 
not in the least degree mollified by the assur- 
ance that the delivery was '' one of the same 
as I used to bowl to W. G." The fire and 
originality of the man seemed to find ex- 
pression in these wides. 

In batting, Mr. Hout was the best man on 
the side, owing to a mental obscurity that 

prevented him from recognising w^hen he 
was l.b.w\ The most lucid umpire could 
not persuade him to retire. As, of the balls 
delivered to Mr. II out, four out of ten hit 
him upon the foot or the calf, this was of 
some importance. He was not a fast scorer, 
but he had some beautiful strokes, the best 
being a very late cut. It was made from a 
ball that was somewhere between wicket- 
keeper and long- 
stop. The stroke 
added nothing to 
the score, but was 
valuable as a 

The legend as 
to his prowess was 
accepted univei'- 
sally upon the 
practice - ground, 
and his presence 
upon a side was 
supposed to confer 
a certain amount 
of distinction, but 
none of the little 
boys desired it. 
He would waylay 
them at the park 
gates, so boister- 
ously glad to see 
them, and so con- 
fident that the 
pleasure w a s 
mutual, that no 
youngster liked to 
hurt his feelings 
l)y telling him he 
was not wanted. 
Mr. Hout was not 
particular as to 
what club liQ re- 
presented, and on 
Saturdays, when 
he might not 
bowl, he would 
sometimes bat in 
half - a - dozen 
different games. 

It was a tedious 

the " Amateurs " 

being new to the 


waiting while 
up. Walter, 



scene, took a general survey of Clarence 

Park and its cricket, in which the reader 

may like to join him. 

Although the best clubs played upon the 
match -ground, where they formed a league 
and played one another also in cup ties, 
there were men's clubs (of no little repute 



in their own world) who 
played matches upon the 
practice-ground, sometimes 
as many as a couple of 
hundred spectators watch- 
ing one from the roadway. 
Men dressed for these 
contests in black broadcloth 
ruits. A cricket-cap, often 
with a gold or silver tassel, 
crowned the whole. Some 
maintained that tassels were 
the prerogative of captains 
and vice-captains, bi^t the 
point was doubtful. 

The patches, although 
quite bare, were not bad ; 
indeed, the hardened earth 
was both truer and safer 
than the turf of the match- 
ground. The bowler, un- 
less he brought down a 
spectator or a player in 
another game, never looked 
like injuring anyone, but 
the batsman seemed to live 
on the edge of man- 
slaughter. Bearded giants 
would be swiping furiously 
at leg balls, and three yards 
from them, little boys, with 
their backs turned, would 
be happily quarrelling with 
each other, oblivious to the 
fact that any moment might 
be their last. Fortunately 
the park match player never 
lets himself go except at leg 
balls, which he invariably 
misses. With other balls, wherever pitched, 
he takes no liberty, choosing instead that 
incessant watchfulness which is said to be 
its equivalent or price. 

Figures show that the safest position in 
London is the centre of a park, with one's 
back to a dozen batsmen bent upon one's 

But this overcrowding, although not 
injurious, causes plentiful inconvenience. 
To have other matches cutting off the in- 
field from the out is no slight drawback. It 
is on record that a new member, put to field- 
cover and long-on, was thanked for every 
ball he returned. Men get sent away to the 
long-field, and they never come back. An 
innings closes, the field picks itself out like 
pieces of a Chinese puzzle, but one is missing. 
Perhaps he has attached himself to some 
more interesting game. He has made a lucky 


' Small boys were ehary about throwing themselves in the path." 

catch of a neighbour's ball, and the un- 
suspecting striker has walked sadly away. 
Without confessing the fraud, the side that 
has thus accepted his assistance cannot resent 
his continuance in their game, or deny him 
an innings subsequently. 

But by this time the "Clarence Amateurs" 
are assembled, and have carried their point 
about using their own ball. Reggie's club 
played with a leather match-ball, black from 
use and as soft as putty. (Elsewhere has been 
written the history of this ball.) But the 
" Amateurs' " was a composition one, many 
ounces over weight, and as hard as granite. 
Mr. Hout, anticipating the impact of this 
missile upon his ankles, was profuse in ex- 
pressions of disgust. 

" I'd like to take that ball away with me," 
he said, " and show it to W. G."" 

" You'll have to ' piy ' for it first, then," 



said the captain of the "Amateurs," an 
uncultivated person, but not without ob- 

The "Amateurs" won the toss and of course 
put their opponents in, the captain wisely 
starting with sneaks at both ends. For a 
time wickets were more plentiful than runs, 
but the game was saved by Walter and Mr. 
Hout. Walter's success was as much a matter 
of character as of skill. In similar circum- 
stances, his younger brother Claude would 
have tried to give these lost lads a notion of 
style, and have perished miserably. Max, 
on the other hand, would have been over- 
come by the ignominy of his surroundings 
and the hopelessness of trying to rise above 
them. Walter was saved from these pitfalls 
by his powers of self-deception. He intended 
to succeed, and the newspaper account of his 
triumph would contain nothing unworthy. 
Already he was sharing in the delusion he 
meant Reggie's journalism to create. 

Walter's first experience of the composition 
ball was disconcerting. He came hard down 
upon a sneak, and the sensation was of 
having been struck by lightning. His arms 
tingled, and the ball scarcely moved. For a 
while he made 'no further attempt to hit, 
contenting himself with pushing the ball in 
front of him and stealing a run. Both 
batsmen ran down the middle of the wicket, 
and as one of them weighed some thirteen 
stone, it may be imagined that small boys 
were chary about throwing themselves in 
the path. The bowlers began to get rattled, 
and to send down balls that pitched, and 
Walter discovered that these could be hit. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Hout was stopping balls 
with his ankles, like a hero. Early in the 
play the umpires' abandoned hope of getting 
him to retire l.b.w. They said " Out ! " when 
appealed to, but more as a record of a 
conscientious opinion than from expectation 
of any practical outcome. The " Amateurs " 
consoled themselves with the barren glory of 
scoring the adverse decisions. They raised 
a cheer when a two-er — one for the over- 
throw — put the total of his runs above that 
of his l.b.w.'s. But Mr. Hout felt himself 
to be playing the innings of his lifetime, 
and heeded neither bruises nor sarcasms. 
At last he pulled a full pitcli into his wickets, 
and retired for eleven, the value of his 
innings being lessened by the fact that at its 
termination he flung down the bat on the, 
pitch, and point securing it, five runs were 
credited to the fielding side. 

This five-run penalty for flinging down 
the bat was universal in the practice-ground, 

point being kept in very close for the express 
purpose of pouncing upon it. It had 
happened, when the bowling was very 
deadly and the batsmen specially irascible, 
that a side had been beaten before its 
opponents went to the wdckets. 

Walter kept up his end, carrying out his 
bat for thirty-three. Needless to say, the 
" Clarence Amateurs " were decisively beaten. 
Mr. Hout took no part in the latter stages 
of the game, having obtained a place in a 
railwaymen's match, where there was cricket 
of a higher class, and a small cask of beer 
beside the scorer. 

Walter was a little disappointed wdth his 
first Press notice. It said that the " Duke 
of Wellington" had beaten the "Clarence 
Amateurs" owing to the good batting of 
Walter Tyrell and the good fielding of 
Reginald Cook. There seemed a lack of 
proportion \\\ bracketing the preparatory 
boy's baby catches at point with such a feat 
as making thirty-three, not out. But he 
bought a copy of the North London Sentinel 
and left it lying about conspicuously. Of 
course, everyone in the house picked up the 
paper and glanced at it ; but equally as a 
matter of course, no one noticed what he 
wished them to. In the end, he had to act 
as his own showman. His father and Max 
(very oddly) regarded the episode, and the 
SentineVs comment, as funny. 

" What bowling it must have been ! " said 
Mr. Tyrell, throwing up his hands. Walter 
modestly tried to suggest that the attack had 
been very deadly, but his father persisted in 
his strange attitude. 

Claude and Margaret were the only ones 
to see the matter in the proper light. The 
little girl spent one of her pennies on 
another copy of the Sentinel^ and put it away 
among her treasures. 

" Didn't you want to run away when they 
were bowliug at you so swiftly ? " she asked. 
Walter had the grace to feel ashamed of 
himself. He did not mean to tell lies ; but 
when he was relating anything, he always 
hoped that from his true statements his 
hearers were receiving impressions that went 
beyond the truth. 

During the ensuing summer the North 
London Sentinel was often moved to admira- 
tion by the cricketing performances of 
Walter 'Eyrell. Once it called attention to 
him editorially, in a paragraph dealing with 
bowling performances of the week. The 
feats thus immortalised were taken im- 
partially from first-class cricket reports, 
and from the scores contributed exclusively 



to tbe SentineVs own columns. It is sur- 
prising what a poor figure the first-class 
bowlers cut. 

There was no organised cricket in con- 
nection with, the great City school, and 
probably these park games, with all their 
absurdities, were better for Walter than the 
half-grudged innings he would have been 
allowed with his elder brother's friends. He 
certainly acquired the good habit of going to 
the wicket expecting to score. He must have 
made nearly half the runs for his club 
that came from the bat. Admirers called 
him "The Ranjitsinhji of the 'Duke of 
Wellington.'" Positively I think Max and 
Mr.Tyrell dismissed his successes too lightly. 

The club were successful beyond all 
precedent. There was only one fly in the 
ointment ; but that was a large one — Mr. 
Hout. Every week did that old International 
become a greater nuisance. It was not alone 
that his cheating invariably caused un- 
pleasantness with the opposing side. Unfair 
as a batsman, he was more unprincipled as a 
wicket-keeper ; and he kept other material 
as well. He was for ever borrowing things 
to take home, and they never came back. 
And he spoke so fiercely when the boys — 
in the most considerate manner, for they 
were dreadfully afraid of hurting his feelings 
— jogged his memory. He pulled at his 
whiskers in a way that frightened the younger 
children into fits. 

" Did they think he wanted to steal their 
miserable stumps ? " he roared. 

They tried to dodge him ; but wherever 
they pitched their wicket, he discovered them. 

Things were in this most unsatisfactory 
state when the match of the season, between 
the " Duke of WeUington " and the dame's 
school from which, two years before, it had 
emanated, was played. Miss Kingsford, the 
dearest of maiden ladies, provided unlimited 
ginger-beer and cakes and buns. Mr. Hout 
arrived upon the scene while the school was 
batting. He was in his most truculent 
humour, and more than half drunk. He 
cursed Reggie for trying to shunt him, and 
spoke darkly about the conspiracy that had 
driven him from first-class cricket pursuing 
him still. He insisted upon a place in the 
team, and when this was granted, refused to 
scout, seated himself upon the coats, rioted 
with the provisions, and threw half-emptied 
ginger-beer bottles at players he suspected of 
slackness in the field. He went away for a 
time, and during his absence, Mr. Gauge, tlie 
preparatory-master, mooned up and con- 
sented to act as umpire. Taking his stand, 

he seemed to become another man — brisker 
and more self-reliant. Mr. Gauge, although 
practice-ground habitues might not know it, 
was an ardent follower of the game. The 
destination of the Clarence Park Cup was his 
chief interest in life. Only last winter he had 
won, by examination, a diploma that gave 
him the right to umpire in matches for the 
trophy. So well did he acquit himself in 
this position that it was rumoured he had 
been appointed one of the umpires in the 
all-important final. 

Mr. Hout returned during the interval, 
and when the " Duke of Welhngton " went 
in, he took first ball. It was a perfectly fair 
trickle (the word "sneak" suggests something 
too venomous and subtle to be appropriate), 
and was stopped by Mr. Hout's foot. Un- 
impeded, it would certainly have hit the 
wicket, but whether it had sufiicient force to 
dislodge a bail is a nice point that umpires 
(fortunately) have not to consider. The 
boy umpire thought that it was out, and said 
so, but Mr. Hout argued that to pitch 
straight it is necessary for a ball to pitch, 
and refused to budge. Mr. Gauge turned 
very red, but his colleague letting the 
matter pass, he said nothing. Shortly after- 
wards an l.b.w. appeal against the Colonial 
was made to him. 

" Out ! " he replied promptly. 

This time the batsman used another argu- 
ment. He said that the ball had struck his 
right foot. Now, you could only be out leg- 
before for obstructing with the left. The 
right foot was called the pivot foot, and 
could be put where the batsman liked; 
otherwise how could he cut ? Now, Dr. 

" I said ' Out,' " remarked Mr. Gange 

" I 'eard you ; but as you don't seem to 
understand your business, I am trying to 
teach it you." 

" What's that ? " 

The despised preparatory-master marched 
towards the offender with a stride that 
would not have disgraced Dr. Smart, the 
head-master, himself. 

This pimple-faced, moonish, eyelashless 
young man, inspired by outraged pride of 
umpirehood, and by a genuine passion for 
cricket and fair play, had become a portent, 
splendidly threatening. 
* " Take yourself off, now," he said, 
" before you have cause to regret it ! " 

" I am going on with my innings, and all 
the (adjectived) cheats in the park won't 
stop me. If you give me any more of your 

^ m r ;^ J ^T lf M^ 

" He seized him by the collar and kicked him off the field of play. 



(expletived) lip, I will break your (em- 
phasised) jaw ! " 

Mr. Gange plucked up a stump and 
brought it down across the bully's shoulders. 

Mr. Hout burst into foul language, and 
the stump descended again. 

" You dare not put up your dukes, like a 
man," he w^himpered. 

Mr. Gange threw away the stump and 
boxed his ears. And then, seeing that there 
was no fight in the man, he seized him by 
the collar and kicked him off the field of 

" Use your pivot fo^t to him, master ! " a 
humorist shouted. 

A crowd had gathered during the quarrel, 
and opinions had been dangerously divided, 
but this cry determined the direction of their 

" Kicks don't count with the pivot foot ! " 
the roughs shouted. 

Directly Mr. Hout could escape, he fled 
like a dog with a kettle tied to its tail. He 
never troubled the club again. 

Mr. Gange stood, his breath coming in 
quick pants, and his face in patches of red 
and white. 

'' The scoundrel questioned my right to 
umpire ! " he repeated. 

One of the crowd had seen Mr. Gange in 
more imposing surroundings. 

"You're good enough for the Cup matches," 
he said, " and I've bin told they don't 'ave 
the ivorst umpires in England for them. 

Pity if you don't know enough for a paltry 
game like this ! " 

At the conclusion of tne play, Walter 
apologised to Mr. Gange for his conduct in 
the detention-room. In the glow of admira- 
tion for Mr. Gauge's courage, he did more 
than justice to the latter's motives for sparing 
him. The fact was, Mr. Gange took no pride 
in his schoolmastering. 

Walter told the story at home, and Max 
determined that Mr. Gange should be 
rewarded. It was the privilege of the class 
to which he had attained to be exempt from 
detentions, a German master alone contesting 
this right. Habitually the latter made out 
detention papers for Fifth Form boys, which 
they, as regularly, declined to accept. The 
next time he did this, his victims — six in 
number — astonished him by taking them 
without a word, Max having persuaded them, 
for a generous object, to sink their dignity. 

The detention-room had never witnessed 
such high company. 

Of course, Fifth Form boys could not 
really think a preparatory-master their equal, 
but you would not have gathered this from 
their conduct. They stood in a row, with 
their backs to the empty fireplace, and one 
or other of them was talking to Mr. Gange 
all the time. 

" Poor Gauge seemed jolly nervous while 
we were speaking to him," said Max after- 
wards, " but I expect it has done him a heap 
of good with his boys." 


IF unto mortals, dazed with grief, 
* This clemency were given, 
To bring petition for relief 
Up to the door of Heaven, 

Unshrinkingly would I implore, 

Erect in my distress, 
Either to know a little more 

Or feel a little less. 



From a Painting by Diaz Carreno. 

Reproduced by permission of Messrs. Myers and Rogers, 59, High ffolborn, sole English agents fur the Madrid publishers, 

Romo and FUssel. 



A LOPSIDED, waning moon, not long 
risen, looked over the ragged crest 
of the ridge and sent long shadows 
down the sparsely wooded slope. Though 
there was no wind, ^and every tree was as 
motionless as if carved of ice, these long, 
intricate .shadows seemed to stir and writhe, 
as if instinct with a kind of sinister, sup- 
pressed activity. This confusion of light 
and dark w^as increased by the patches of 
snow that still clung in the dips and on the 
gentler slopes. The air was cold, yet with a 
bitter softness in it, the breath of the thaw. 
The sound of running w^ater was every- 
w^here — the light clamour of rivulets and 
the rush of the swollen brooks ; while from 
the bottom of tlie valley came the deep, 
pervading voice of the river at freshet, 
labouring between high banks with its 
burden of sudden flood. 

Over the crest of the ridge, inky black 
for an instant against the distorted moon, 
came a leaping deer. He vanished in a 
patch of young firs. He shot out again 
into the moonlight. Down the slope he 
came in mighty bounds, so light of foot 
and so elastic that he seemed to float through 
the air, though from his heaving sides and 
wild eyes it was evident that he was fleeing 
in desperation from some appalling terror. 
Straight down the slope he came, to the 
very brink of the high bluff overlooking 
the river. There he wheeled, and continued 
- his flight up the valley, his violent shadow 
every now and then, as he crossed the 
spaces of moonlight, projecting grotesquely 
far out upon the swirling flood. 
lUp along the river bluff he fled for 
perhaps a mile. Then he stopped suddenly 
and listened, his sensitive ears and dilating 
nostrils held high to catch the faintest waft 
of air. Not a sound came to him, except 
the calling of the waters ; not a scent, save 
the raw^ freshness of melting snow and the 
balsamic tang of buds just beginning to 
thrill to the first of the rising sap. He 
bounded on again for perhaps a hundred 
yards, then with a tremendous leap sprang 

* Copyright, 1903, by Charles G. D. Roberts, in the 
United States of America. 

to one side, a full thirty feet, landing belly 
deep in a thicket of scrub juniper, xinother 
leap, as if he were propelled by steel springs, 
carried him yet another thirty feet aside. 
Then he turned, ran back a couple of 
hundred yards parallel to his old trail, and 
lay down in a dense covert of spruces to 
catch breath and ease his pounding heart. 
He was a very young buck, not yet seasoned 
in the craft of the wilderness, and his 
terror shook him. But he knew enough 
to take his snatched rest at the very edge 
of his covert, where his eyes could watC5h 
the back trail. For a quarter of an hour, 
however, nothing appeared along that staring 
trail. Then he got up nervously and re- 
sumed his flight, still ascending the valley, 
but now slanting away from the river and 
gradually climbing back towards the crest of 
the ridge. He had in mind a wide reach of 
swales and flooded meadows, still miles away, 
wherein he might hope to elude the doom 
that followed him. 

Not long after the buck had vanished, 
there arose a strange sound upon the still, 
wet air. It came in a rising and falling 
cadence from far behind the ridge, under 
the low, lopsided moon. It was a high, 
confused sound, not unmusical, but terrifying 
— a cry of many voices. It drifted up 
into the silvery night, wavered and dimin- 
ished, swelled again, and then died away, 
leaving a sense of fear upon the quiet that 
followed. The soft clamour of the w^aters, 
w^hen one noticed them again, seemed to 
have taken a new note from the menace of 
that cadenced cry. 

Presently over the top of the ridge, 
at the gap wherein had first appeared the 
form of the leaping buck, a low, dark shape 
came, moving sinuously and with deadly 
swiftness. It did not bound into the air 
and float, as the buck had seemed to do, but 
slid smoothly like a small, dense patch of 
cloud -shadow^ — a direct, inevitable movement, 
wasting no force and fairly eating up the 
trail of the fleeing deer. 

As it came down the slope, disappearing 
in the hemlock groves and emerging upon 
the bright, snowy hollows, the dread shape 
resolved itself into a pack of seven wolves. 




They ran so close, so evenly, with fanned muzzles a little low, and ample, cloudy tails a 
little high, that one might have almost covered the whole deadly pack with a taWe-cloth. 
Their tongues were hanging out and their eyes shot green fire ; they were fiercely hungry, 
for game was scarce and cunning 
that winter on their much ravaged 
range, and this chase was already a 
long one. When 
the trail of the 
buck wheeled at 
the river-brink, the 
leader of the pack 
gave one short howl 
as he turned, barely 
escaping the abyss. It seemed 
to him that the buck must 
have been nearly winded, or 
he w^ould not, even for an 
instant, have contemplated 
taking to such mad water. 
With the renewed vigour of 
encouragement, he swept his 
pack along up the edge of the 

On the pack leader's right 
flank ran a sturdy wolf of a 
darker colour than his fellows 
—nearly black, indeed, on 

the top of his head, over his 
shoulders, and along his stiff- 
haired backbone. Not quite so 
tall or so long- flanked as the 
leader, he had that greater 
breadth of skull between the eyes 
which betokens the stronger 

intelligence, the more in- 
dividualised resourcefulness. 
He had a look in his deep- 
set, fierce eye which seemed 
to prophesy that 
unless'the unforeseen 
should happen, he 
would ere long seize 
the leadership to 

But— the unfore- 
seen did happen, at 
that moment. The 
trail just there led 
across a little dip 
wherein the snow 

still lingered. Thinly 

/ ' ^Hi^^ '^^SOT covered by the snow 

lay a young pine tree, 
Hghtning shivered 
and long dead. 

■*.nAine.i i./v»N«.iToit &utu 



Thrust up from the trunk was a slim, sharp- 
pointed stub, keen and hard and preserved 
by its resin. Upon this hidden dagger- 
point, as he ran, the dark wolf planted his 
right fore-foot — planted it fair and with a 
mighty push. Between the spreading toes, 
between the fine bones and sinews and the 
cringing nerves of the foot, and out by the 
first joint of the leg it thrust 
its rending way. 

At the suddenness of the 
anguish the dark wolf yelped, 
falling forward upo^i his 
muzzle as he did so, and 
dropping from his place as 
the pack sped on. But as he 
wrenched his foot free and 
took one stumbling stride 
forward, the pack stopped 
and turned. Their long, 
white fangs snapped, and the 
fire in their eyes took a 
different hue. 

Yery well the dark wolf 
knew the meaning of the 
halt, the turn, the change in 
his fellows' eyes. He knew 
the stern law of the pack — 
the inst^mt and inevitable 
doom of its hurt member. 
The average grey wolf 
knows how to accept the 
inevitable. Fate itself — the 
law of the pack — he does not 
presume to defy. He will 
fight — to justify his blood, 
and, perhaps, to drug his 
despair and die in the heat 
of the struggle. But he 
does not dream of trying to 

And in this fashion, fight- 
ing in silence, this dark w^olf 
would have died at the brink 
of the river-bluff, and been 
eaten by his fellows ere they 
continued their chase of the 
leaping buck— in this fashion 
would he ha\e died, but for that extra 
breadth of skull between the eyes, that 
heightened individualism and resourceful- 
ness. Had there been any chance to escape 
by fighting, fighting would have been the 
choice of his fierce and hardy spirit. But 
what was he against six ? 

Defying the fiery anguish in his foot, he 
made a desperate leap which took him to 
the extreme overhanging edge of the bluff. 
Already the jaws of the executioners were 

He was in niid-ai 
ice-cakes of the 

gnashing at his heels. A second more, and 
they would have been at his throat. But 
before that second passed, he was in mid-air, 
his legs spread wide like those of a squirrel, 
falling to the ice-cakes of the swollen river. 
From the brink above, the grim eyes of the 
baffled pack flamed down upon him for an 
instant and then withdrew. What was a 
drowned wolf, when there 
was a winded buck not far 
ahead ? 

But the black-shouldered 
wolf was not drowned. The 
flood was thick, indeed, with 
crunching ice - cakes and 
wallowing logs and slowly 
turning islets of uprooted 
trees and the dehris of the 
winter forest. But fortune 
so favoured the wolf that he 
fell in a space of clear water, 
instead of being dashed to 
a pulp on ice-cake or tree- 
trunk. He disappeared, came 
to the surface gasping, struck 
out hardily through the grim 
and daunting turmoil, and 
succeeded in gaining one of 
those islets of toughly inter- 
laced debris which turned 
slowly in the flood. Upon 
this precarious refuge, 
crouched shivering upon the 
largest tree root and licking 
persistently at his wounded 
paw, he was carried swiftly 
down stream through the 
roar of waters. 


When the lopsided moon, 
now hung high over a low, 
desolate shore of blanched 
ram-pikes, was fading to a 
papery whiteness against a 
„ TT , ,, sky of dawn, the roar of the 

r, railing to the . ^ ' -, ^ , 

swoUen'river." Hvcr grcw louder, and the 
islet, no longer slowly re- 
volving, plunged forward, through a suc- 
cession of wallowing waves, over a wild 
half-mile of ledges, and joined itself to 
a wider and mightier stream ; the wolf, 
drenched, shivering, and appalled by the 
tumult, clung to his refuge by tooth and 
claw ; and the islet, being well compacted, 
held together through the wrenching plunges, 
and carried its burden safely forth upon the 
quiet current. 

For a day and a night and a day the 



starving wolf voyaged down the flood, till 
his gaunt sides clung together, and a fierce 
ache gnawed at his vitals. But with the 
fasting and the ceaseless soothing of his 
tongue his w^ound rapidly healed ; and when, 
after sunset of his second evening on the 
river, the islet grounded in an eddy under 
the bank, he sprang ashore with speed little 
impaired. Only a limp and an ache remained 
to remind him of the hurt which had so 
nearly cost him his hfe and had exiled him 
to untried hunting-grounds. 

His feet once more on firm ground, the 

air, a scent quite unknown to him ; and then 
a small black and white cur trotted into 
view, nosing along the roadside in quest of 
chipmunks. The jaws of the starving wolf 
dripped water at the sight. He gathered 
himself for a rush. He saw^ that the 
man had disappeared. The dog ran across 
the road, nosing a new chipmunk trail, 
and halted, in sudden apprehension, not 
five feet from the hidden wolf. There 
was a rustle, a leap, a sharp yelp ; and 
the wolf was back into cover with his 

Emboldened by the success of this his first 
hunting in the unknown land, the w^olf slept 
for a few hours in his bushy retreat, and then, 
when the misshapen moon was up, went 
prowling cautiously around the outskirts of 
the scattered little settlement. Everywhere 
the man-smell kept him on his guard. Once 
he w^as careless enough to get between the 
wind and a farmyard, wliereupon a watchful 
cur started a barking which was taken up 
and kept up for an hour by all the dogs of 

' Crouched shiverincj upon the largest 
tree root and licking persistently 
at his wounded paw." 

wolf halted warily. The air that came 
down the bank carried a strange and 
warning scent. Noiselessly he crept up the 
steep, went through a few yards of shrubbery 
like a ghost, and peered forth upon a rough 
back settlement road. To one side he saw a 
cabin with a barn beside it, and two long- 
horned steers (he had seen steers at a lumber- 
camp in his own wild land) thrusting their 
muzzles over the pasture fence. Down the 
road towards the cabin came a man in grey 
homespun and cowhide larrigans, with an 
axe over his shoulder. It was the man-smell 
which had made him so cautious. 

With savage but curious eyes he watched 
the man, wi'th no thought of attacking alone 
so redoubtable a foe. Presently the latter 
began to whistle, and at the incomprehensible 
sound the w^olf shrank back, fear mingled 
wath his curiosity. But when the man was 
w^ell past, there came a new scent upon the 

the village. At this the wolf, with snarling, 
contemptuous jaws apart, withdrew^ to a 
knoll, sat quietly erect upon his haunches, 
and W'aited for the din to subside. He noted 
carefully the fact that one or two men were 
aroused by the alarm and came out to see 
what was the matter. When all was quiet 
again, he sought the house of the nearest 
yelper, took him by surprise, and killed him 
in sheer rage, leaving his torn body beside 
the very doorstep, instead of dragging it 
away for a later meal. This w^as a mistake 
in hunting craft. Had he been more familiar 
with the man-folk, his wido-skulled intelli- 
gence w^ould have taught him better than to 
leave a clue behind him in this careless 

From the farmyard he wandered back 
towards the hills and came upon a lonely 
sheep-pasture. Here he found killing so 
easy that he slew in w^antonness ; and then. 



about daybreak, gorged and triumphant, withdrew to a rocky hillside, where he found 
a lair to his taste. 

Later in the day, however, he realised his mistake. He had called down upon himself 
the wrath of the man-folk. A din of dogs aroused him, and, mounting a rock, he saw a 
motley crowd of curs upon his trail, with half-a-dozen men following far behind them. 
He bared \m fangs disdainfully, then turned and sought the forest at a long gallop, which, 
for all his limp and his twinge, soon carried him beyond earshot of his pursuers. 

For hours he pressed on, ever eastward, with a little trend to the south, crossing 
many a trail of deer, caribou, and moose, passing here and there a beaver village, and 
realising that he had come to wonderful hunting-grounds. But when he came to the 
outskirts of another settlement, he halted. His jaws ran water at the thought of finding 
another sheep-pasture, and he decided to range for a wiiile in the neighbourhood. He 
was quick to realise, the disadvantage of man's proximity, but he would dare it for a 
little before retiring into the untainted wilderness. He had learned his lesson quickly, 
however. That night he refrained from stirring up the dogs of the settlement ; and 
he killed but one sheep, in a secluded corner of the pasture. 

Now, by singular chance, it happened that at this particular settlement there was already 
a sheep-killer harrying the thick-woolled flocks. A wandering pedlar, smitten with 
a fever while visiting the settlement, had died, and left to pay for his board and 

burial only his pack and his dog. The dog, so fiercely 
devoted to him as to have made the funeral difficult, was a 
long-legged, long-haired, long-jawed bitch, apparently a 
cross between a collie and a Scotch deerhound. So unusual 
a beast, making all the other dogs of the settlement look 
contemptible, was in demand ; but she was deaf, for a 
time, to all overtures. For a week she pined for the dead 
pedlar, and then, with an air of scornful tolerance, con- 
sented to take up her abode with the village shopkeeper. 
Her choice was made not for any distinction in the man, 
but for a certain association, apparently, with the smell of 
the contents of her late mas'ter's pack. For months she 
sulked and was admired, making friends with neither man, 
woman, nor child, and keeping all the village curs at a 
respectful distance. 

A few days, however, before the arrival of the journeying 
wolf, a new interest had entered into the life of the long- 
jawed bitch. Her eyes resumed their old bright alertness, 
and she grew perceptibly less ungracious to the loafers 
gathered around the stove in the back store. 
She had entered upon a career which would 
have ended right speedily with a bullet in her 
reckless brain but for an utterly unlooked-for 
freak of fate. She had discovered that, if every 
night she could hunt, run down, and kill 
one sheep, life might again become worth 
living, and the coarse-clodded grave in the 
little lonely cemetery might be forgotten. 
It was not the killing, but the chase, that 
she craved. The killing was, of course, merely 
the ecstatic culmination. So she went 
about the sport with artistic cunning. 
To disguise her trail, she came upon 
the flocks from the side of the forest, 
as any wild beast would. Then she 
would segregate her victim with a 
skill born of her collie ancestry, set 
*-c^s3^'''^'' it running, madden it to the top- 

-Arustle, a leap, a sharp velp; and the wolf was back "^^^t delirium of fear aild flight, and 

into Qover with his prey." almost let it escape before darting 



at its throat and ending the game* with 
the gnsh of warm blood between her jaws. 

Such had been her 
adventures for three 
nights ; and already the 
settlement was con- 
cerned, and already 
glances of half-fornied 
suspicion had been cast 
upon the long-legged 
bitch so innocently 
asleep by the stove, 
when the wandering 
wolf arrived upon the 
outskirts of the settle- 
ment. The new-comer 
was quick to note and 
examine the tracks of a 
peculiarly large dog — 
a foeman, perhaps, to 
prove not unworthy of 
his fangs. And he 
conducted his recon- 
noitring with more care. 
Then he came upon 
the carcass of a sheep, 
torn and partly eaten. 
It was almost like a wolf's work — 
though less cleanly done — and the 
smell of the cold trail was unmis- 
takably dog. The black-backed wolf 
was puzzled. He had a vague notion 
that dogs were the protectors, not the 
hunters, of all the four-legged kindred 
belonging to men. The problem 
seeming to him an important one, 
he crouched in an ambush near the carcass 
to consider it for a time, before setting out 
upon his own sheep-hunting. 

At si^ht of the big wolf 
the hair rose along her back, 
and she growled a deep note 
of challenge." 

As he crouched, watching, he saw the 
killer approach. He saw a tall, lean bitch 
come up, tear carelessly 
at the dead sheep for a 
moment or two, in a 
manner of ownership, 
and turn to leave. She 
was as long in leg and 
flank as himself, and 
possessed of the like 
punishing jaws ; but 
she Avas not so mas- 
sive in the shoulder. 
The wolf felt that he 
could master her in 
combat, but he felt no 
disposition for the tight. 
The dog-smell that 
came to his nostrils did 
not excite the usual hot 
aversion. On the con- 
trary, it made him 
desire to know more 
of the sheep - killing 

But acquaintance is 
not made lightly among 
the wild kindred, who 
are quick to resent a 
presumption. The wolf 
slipped noiselessly back 
into his covert, emerged 
upon the further side 
of the thicket, and at 
a distance of some 
twenty paces stood forth 
in the glimmering light. To attract the tall 
bitch's attention, he made a soft, whining 

Here the wanderers found a 
dry cave." 



AX the unexpected noise beliincl her, the bitch wheeled 
hke lightning. At sight of the big wolf, the hair rose 
along her back, her fangs bared themselves dangerously, 
and she growled a deep note of challenge. For some 
seconds the wolf thought she would fly at him ; but he 
stood motionless, tail drooping humbly, tongue hanging 
a little way from his lips, a soft light in his eyes. Then 
he sat back upon his haunches, let his tongue hang out 
still farther, and drooped his head a little to one side — 
the picture of conciliation and deference. 

The long-jawed bitch had never before seen a wolf, but 
she recognised him at once as a natural enemy. There 
w^as something in his attitude of unoffending confidence, 
however, which made her hesitate to attack, although he 
w^as plainly a trespasser. As she eyed him, she felt her 
anger melting away. How^ like he was to certain big, 
strong dogs which she had seen once or twice in her 
wanderings with the pedlar ! and how unlike to the 
diminutive, yelping curs of the settlement 1 Her bristling 
hairs smoothed themselves, the skin of her jaws 
relaxed and set itself about her teeth in a totally 
different expression ; her growling ceased, and 
she gave an amicable whine. Diffidently the 
two approached each other, and in a few 
minutes a perfect understanding was es- 

That night they hunted sheep together. 
In the joy of comradeship and emulation, 
prudence was scattered to the winds, 
and they held a riot of slaughter. 
When day broke, a dozen or more 
sheep lay dead about the pastures. 
And the wolf, knowing that men and 
dogs w^ould soon be noisy on their trail, led his new-found mate far back into the 


The tall bitch, hating the settlement and all the folk therein, w^as glad to be quit of it. 
And she found the hunting of deer far more thrilling than the tame pursuit of sheep. 
Slipping with curious ease the inherited sympathies of her kind, she fell into the ways of 
the wild kindred, save for a brusque openness that she never succeeded in laying oiff. 

For weeks the strangely mated pair drifted southward througli the bright New Bruns- 
wick spring, to come to a halt at last in a region to their liking between the St. John 
and the Ohiputneticook chain of lakes. It was a land of deer and rabbits and ducks, with 
settlements small and widely scattered, a land wdiere never a wolf -snout had been seen for 
half a hundred years. And here, on a thick-wooded hill slope, the wanderers found a dry 
cave and made it their den. 

In due course the long-jawed bitch bore a litter of six sturdy whelps, which throve 
amazingly. As they grew up, they showed almost all wolf, harking back to the type — 
save that in colour they were nearly black, with a touch of tan in the grey of their 
under-parts. When they came to maturity, and were accredited hunters all, they were in 
general larger and more savage than either of their parents, differing more widely, one 
from another, than would the like number of fall-blooded wolves. The eight, when they 
hunted together, made a pack whioh, for strength, ferocity, and craft, no like number of 
full-blooded wolves in all Canada could have matched. 

The long-jawed bitch, whose highly developed brain guided, for the most part, the 
destinies of the pack, for a time kept them far from the settlement and aw^ay from 
contact with men ; and the existence of wolves in the Ohiputneticook country was not 
dreamed of among the backwoods settlements. In this policy she was backed by the 

•A pack which no like number 
of wolves in all Canada could 
have matched." 



''A little, steep, rocky island, upthrusting itself boldly." 

sagacity and strength of her mate, nnder 
whose wide-arclied skull was a clear percep- 
tion of the truth that man is the one master 
animal. But tlie hybrid whelps, by some 
perversion of inherited instinct, hated man 
savagely, and had the dread of him more 
than either of their parents. 

The second winter of the wolves in the 
Chiputneticook country proved a very hard 
one — game scarce and hunting difficult ; and 
towards the end of February the pack drew 
in towards the settlements, in the hope of 
more abundant foraging. Fate promptly 
favoured the move. Some sheep, and a 
heifer or two, were easily killed, with no 
calamitous result ; and the authority of the 
leaders was somewhat discredited. Three of 
the young wolves even went so far as to 
besiege a solitary cabin, where a woman and 
three trembling children awaited the return 
of the man. For two hideous moonlit hours 
they prowled and howled about the door, 
sniffing at the sill and grinning in through 
the low window ; and when the sound of 
bells came near, they withdrew sullenly, half- 
minded to attack the man and horse. 

A few nights after this, when the pack 
was following together the discouraging trail 
of a long-winded and wily buck, they crossed 
the trail of a man on snowshoes. This trail 
was fresher, and to the young wolves it 
seemed to promise easier hunting. 

The trail was that of a gaunt, tan-faced 
backwoodsman, on his way to a lumber camp 
a few miles down the other side of the lake. 
He was packing a supply of hght needfuls, 
of which the lumbermen had unexpectedly 
run short, and he was pressing forward in 
haste to avoid a second night on the trail. 
The pack was carried high on his powerful 
shoulders, in a manner to interfere as little 
as possible with bis long, snowshoeing stride. 
In one hand he carried his axe. From under 
th@ brim of his coonskin cap his piercing 

grey eyes kept watch with a quiet alertness 
— expecting no danger, indeed, and fearing 
none, but trained to cool readiness for every 
vicissitude of the Avild. 

He was travelling through a stretch of 
heavy timber, where the moonlight came 
down in such scant streaks that he had 
trouble in picking a clear path, when his ear 
was caught by an unwonted sound far behind 
him. He paused to listen, no unwonted 
sound being matter of indifference to them 
who range the wood. It came again, long- 
drawn and high and cadenced. The big 
woodsman looked surprised. " Fd V took 
my oath," said he to himself, " ther' wa'n't a 
wolf in New Brunswick ! But I knowed the 
deer'd bring 'em back afore long ! " Then, 
unconcernedly, he resumed bis tramp, such 
experience as he bad with wolves in the Far 
West having convinced him that they would 
not want to meddle with a man. 

In a few minutes, however, the instinct of 
the woods awoke in him suddenly and told 
him that it was not some buck, but himself, 
w^hom the hunting pack were trailing. Then 
the sound came again, perceptibly nearer, 
though still far off. The woodsman gave a 
grunt of impatience, angry to think that 
any four-footed creature of the forest should 
presume to hunt liim I But the barest 
prudence told him that he should make haste 
for the open. Under protest, as it were, he 
broke into a long trot, and swerved to the 
right that he might soooner reach the lake. 

As he ran, the novel experience of feeling 
himself pursued got on his nerves and filled 
him with rage. Were there not plenty of 
deer in the woods ? he thought indignantly. 
He would teach the vermin^, lesson. Several 
times he was on the point of stopping, to 
have it out with them as soon as possible. 
But wisdom prevailed, and he pushed on 
to the open. About a mile from shore, a little, 
steep, rocky island, upthrusting itself boldly, 



suggested to the woodsman that if his pur- 
suers were really going to have the audacity 
to attack him, it might be well to have his 
hack to a rock, that he might not be sur- 
rounded. He headed for the island, therefore, 
though with protest in his heart. And just 
as he got to it, the wolves emerged from 
cover and darted out upon the shining level. 
When the pack came near, the man was 
astonished first at the stature and dark colour 
of its members, and realised with a sudden 
fury that the outcome was not so assured as he 
had taken for granted it would be. Perhaps 
he would never see camp, after all ! Then 
he was further astonished to note that one of 
the pack-leaders looked like a dog. He 
shouted, in a voice of angry command ; and 
the onrushing pack hesitated, checked them- 
selves, spread apart. From that dominating 
voice it was evident that this was a creature 
of power— not to be attacked carelessly, but 
to be surrounded. 

That voice of command had thrilled the 
heart of a long- jawed bitch. Something in 
it reminded her of the dead pedlar, who had 
been a masterful man. She would have none 
of this hunting. But she looked at each of 
her savage whelps, and knew that any attempt 
to lead them off would be worse than vain. 
A strange hatred began to stir within her, 
and her fangs bared towards them as if they, 
not the man against the rock, were tlie 
enemy. She looked again at the man and 
saw the pack at his feet ! Instantly her heart 
went out to him. She was no longer a wolf, 
but a dog; and there was her master — not 
her old master, but such a one as he had 
been. Ki his side, and fighting his foes, w^as 
her place. Like a flash she darted away from 
her companion, stopped a few feet in front of 
the ready woodsman, turned about, and faced 
the pack with a savage growl. Her hair was 
stiffly erect from neck to tail; her long, white 
teeth were bared to the roots ; her eyes were 
narrowed to slits of green flame ; she half 
crouched, ready to spring in mad fury and 
tear the throat of any beast which should try 
to hurt the man. 

As for the woodsman, he knew dogs, and 
was not greatly surprised at his strange ally. 
At her sudden approach he had swung his axe 
in readiness, but his cool eye had read her 
signals aright. " Good dog ! " he said, with 
cheerful confidenle. " We'll lick the varmin ! " 
But the young wolves went wild with rage 
at this defection and defiance, and rushed in 
at once. They sprang first upon the bitch, 
though one, rushing past, leaped venomously 
at the woodman's throat, got the axe in his 

skull, and dropped without a sound. Mean- 
while the old wolf, which had been holding 
back in uncertainty, had made his decision. 
When he saw his mate attacked, his doubts 
vanished, and a red haze for an instant went 
over his eyes. These whelps that attacked 
her — he suddenly .saw them not as w^olves 
at all, but as dogs, and hated them with a 
deadly hate. Silently he fell upon the nearest 
and tore him savagely. He was too late, 
however, to save his mate. The long- 
jawed bitch, for all her strength and her 
valiant spirit, was overwhelmed by her 
powerful offspring. One she had killed, and 
for one she had crunched a leg-joint to 
splinters ; but now she lay mangled and still 
under the struggle. The brute whose leg- 
joint she had smashed dragged out from 
the meUe ; and her faithful mate, the wide- 
skulled old wanderer wolf, found himself in 
the death-grapple with three raging adver- 
saries, each fairly his match. 

At this juncture, fortunately for the old 
wolf, the woodsman's understanding eye had 
penetrated the whole situation. He saw 
that the black-haired beasts were the common 
enemy, and he fell upon the three with his 
axe. His snowshoes he had kicked off when 
making ready for the struggle. In his 
mighty grasp, the light axe whirled and 
smote with the cunning of a rapier ; and in 
a few seconds the old wolf, bleeding but still 
vigorous, found himself confronting the 
man across a heap of mangled black bodies. 
The man, lowering his axe, looked at the 
bleeding wolf with mingled doubt and appro- 
bation. The wolf glared back for an instant 
— fear, hate, and grief in the green gleam 
of his eyes — then turned and fled, his pace 
accelerated by the cheerful yell which the 
man sent after him. 

Turning about, the woodsman saw the 
disabled whelp trying to sneak off, and 
with unerring aim threw his axe. The 
black mongrel sank with a kick and lay 
still. The woodsman turned over the 
bodies and patted the fur of the long- 
jawed bitch which had so splendidly turned 
back to her traditions in the time ol 
need. As he thought, the main elements of 
the story unfolded themselves to him. Con- 
siderately, he carried the limp body and 
securely buried it under a heap of stones on 
the islatid. The rest he hid carelessly, 
intending to return and skin them on the 

" Them black pelts'll be worth somethin', 
I reckon ! " he said to himself with satisfac- 
tion as he took up his pack. 



Compiled and Edited by 


I DOUBT whether full credit was given 
to Skin o' iny Tooth for the solution of 
that mysterious incident in the Saltashe 
Woods, which he— and no one else— brought 
about. Personally, I firmly believe that 
Kelly, of Saltashe Park, would have allowed 
his brother to hang, sooner than confess, if 
Skin o' my Tooth had not succeeded in abso- 
lutely cornering him. Now, in the case of 
the Polish Prince, no one could deny — but 
perhaps I had better say how it all hap- 

The Swanborough tragedy was filling all 
London and provincial papers with its grue- 
some mysteries. Early on Tuesday morning, 
March 18th, the body of a man, shockingly 
mutilated, was found on the level crossing, 
just below the Swanborough station of the 
London and North -Western Railway. It is 
always difficult to dwell on the grim details 
which are the usual accompaniment to this 
type of drama ; sufficient to say, in this in- 
stance, that the body was found lying straight 
along the metals, so that the passing express 
had gone clean over the trunk and face. 
What mutilation the train had left unaccom- 
plished had been- completed by the sparks 
from the engine. The face was unrecognis- 
able, the hair had been singed, the flesh on 
hands and neck had been charred. The 
peculiar position of the body, so carefully 
laid down, with the feet pointing towards 
Swanborough station, and the head towards 
Bletchley, disposed of any theory of accident 
that may at first have suggested itself. It 
was clearly either a case of murder — the 
unfortunate man having, presumably, been 
rendered unconscious and then placed on the 
metals — or one of deliberate suicide. 

The grim tragedy immediately assumed 
the appearance of complete mystery. Though 

* Copyright, 1903, by Ward, Lock and Co., Limited, 
in the United States of America. 

Swanborough is but a tiny, straggling vil- 
lage, and this part of Buckinghamshire but 
scantily populated, no one seemed to have 
missed a relative or friend, or to recognise 
the clothes and sundry small articles of 
jewellery, etc., found upon the mutilated 
body. The police had published a descrip- 
tion of these clothes and articles, and of the 
body, as far as this could be done. The un- 
fortunate man seemed to be about thirty-five 
years of age, five feet nine inches in height, 
and of slight build. He was evidently in the 
habit of wearing a green silk shade over one 
eye, for one was found lying on the ground 
quite close to the head ; the right forearm 
showed a very recent wound caused by the 
burning of some acid — probably vitriol. 

The people of Swanborough, however, in 
spite of the horrible gruesomeness of the 
tragedy, seemed to take very little interest in 
the elucidation of its mysteries ; perhaps, 
too, they had the average English yokel's 
horror of having anything to do with the 
police. Be that as it may, it was not until 
the following day that a more enlightened 
or' more enterprising villager bethought 
himself of walking to tlie police-station and 
informing the inspector there that " maybe 
the murdered man was Mrs. Stockton's 

It appears that Mrs. Stockton, who rented 
a small cottage not far from the railway, had 
had a lodger on and off for the past six 
months. No one in the village had ever 
seen him ; if he ever went outside the 
cottage, he must have done so at nights ; 
but young Stockton had sometimes talked to 
the neighbours about his mother's lodger. 
He was a foreigner, he said, and "no end of 
a swell," with a name no decent body could 
pronounce, as it was about half a yard long. 
He was certainly very odd in his ways, for 
he used to go away quite suddenly, and not 
come home for a week or so on end. Mrs. 




Stockfcon never knew where he went to ; and 
then he wonld turn np again, mostly in the 
very early mornings. 

Life in rnral districts is wonderfnlly self- 
centred ; still, the police thonght it odd that 
this tardy information did not come from 
Mrs. Stockton herself or from her son, if, 
indeed, her lodger were missing jnst now. The 
detective-inspector immediately went down 
to the cottage. Finding the door locked, 
and getting no answer to his repeated knocks, 
he forced his way in, followed by two 
constables. ^ 

Parlour and 
kitchen were 
empty, but up 

on the floor ,^ '^^\.K?^^K^^tc^ 
above, in one ' i 
of the three ^^^^^^'^^ 

little bed- ^^^KV^;^, 

rooms, the 
men found 
the unfortu- 
nate woman 
lying in bed 
with her 
throat cut. 
There was no 
sign or trace 
anywhere of 
young Stock- 

The mys- 
t e r y , of ti 
course, had 
m ore and 
more. No- 
thing in the 
seemed to 
have been 
touched ; 
there were 
even a couple 
of sovereigns 
and some 
silver lying in a money-box. So far, it 
appeared that two purposeless and shocking 
murders had been committed probably 
within a few moments of each other, as Mrs. 
Stockton had evidently been dead a good 
many hours. The detecti\^-inspector insti- 
tuted immediate inquiries in the neighbour- 
hood on tlie subject of young Stockton, wlio 
certainly had unaccountably disappeared. It 
seems that he was a platelayer by trade, lately 
in the employ of the North- Western Railway, 
but recently dismissed owing to ill-conduct. 

"'I was engaged to Prince 
Sierotka, who was murdered 
on the railway.' " 

A description of the missing man was 
telegraphed to every police and railway 
station in the kingdom, but so far not a 
trace of him had been found. The theory 
of the police was that he had boarded the 
very train which had mangled the body of 
his victim, and then dropped off it again a 
good deal further down the line. Whether 
he had murdered the " foreign swell " for 
purposes of robbery, and killed his mother 
in order to get rid of an inconvenient 
witness, was, of course, a mere matter of con- 
jecture ; cer- 
tain it is 
that he had 
almost as if 
the earth had 
V^\; him up. 

,v 11. 

F ROM the 
first, Skin o' 
my Tooth was 
greatly inter- 
ested in the 
Swan borough 
tragedy. The 
personality of 
one of the 
victims, the 
veil of com- 
plete mystery 
w h i c h the 
murderer had 
succeeded in 
throwing over 
liis crime, the 
" foreign 
swell" who 
lived in 
the English 
cottage, all 
to my chief's 
dramatic and mys- 


love for 

It was on the afternoon of the 2(ith, just 
after I had come in with the evening 
papers, that there was a timid rap at an outer 
office door. I went to open it, and, to my 
amazement, saw before me the daintiest 
vision that had ever graced (Tur fusty old 
office in Finsbury Square. 

It was a lovely young girl, scarcely out 
of her teens, beautifully dressed in deep 
black, who asked me if she could speak to 



Mr. Mulligan immediately. It is such an 
unusual thing for us to receive the visits of 
charming young ladies that for the moment 
I quite forgot to ask for her name. 

However, Skin o' my Tooth was quite 
ready to receive her, whoever she was, and 
the next moment I had shown the lady into 
the private office. 

She walked up to my esteemed employer 
and held out a daintily gloved hand to 

" My name is quite unknown to you^ Mr. 
Mulligan," slie began. " I am Miss Marion 
Calvert, and I would not have ventured to 
come like this to your office without any 
introduction, and all alone, but I want the 
best possible legal advice, and " 

" Yes ? " 

" My friend. Miss Morton, who is engaged 
to Mr. Edward Kelly, of Saltasbe Park, told 
me all about you once, a long time ago, and 
how much you had done for Mr. Kelly. I 
remember then making up my mind that 
if ever I were in trouble and wanted a lawyer, 
I would come to you ; and now " 

She had undone her furs and seated herself 
beside the desk. Skin o' my Tooth gave me 
a wink. I knew what that meant. I was to 
sit in my usual corner behind the wooden 
partition and take shorthand notes of every- 
thing the lady said. 

" Mr. Mulligan," she resumed very abruptly, 
" I was engaged to Prince Sierotka, who was 
nnirdered the other day on the railway near 

" Then, indeed, you are in trouble," said 
Skin o' my Tooth very gently, " and that is 
why you have come to consult me. Tell 
me what I can do for you." 

"I am afraid that my story will seem a 
very foolish one to you. I was only a school- 
girl then. It was six months ago," she 
explained with touching naivete, " I had 
just left school, and was going down to 
Buckinghamshire to stay with my guardian, 
Mr. Percival Lake and his wife, when I first 
met Prince Sierotka. It was in the train 
between Euston and Swanborougli, and he 
was so kind and attentive, an I oh ! so 
interesting. He told me that he was a Pole, 
and he talked about his country, and the 
revolution, and the Polish martyrs who had 
suffered in the cause of freedom. He 
himself was an exile from the country he 
loved so well, because he had taken part in 
the revolution. He had large estates, but 
they were temporarily confiscated by the 
Czar ; so he bad to come to England, which 
he loved, and he lived in a small cottage 

amidst roses and lihes, and dreamt there of 
Poland and her liberty. 

'* You may imagine how delighted I was 
when he told me that this ideal cottage was 
in Swanborough, close to where my guardian 
lived, for I had hopes then that I should 
see him again. Well, Mr. Mulligan, I won't 
bore you with all the det^iils of what was 
the happiest time of my life, Mrs. Lake 
was kindness itself, but she kept rather a 
strict eye over my movements. However, 
very soon I discovered that I could always 
slip out in the evenings, while she went to 
sleep over her game of 'patience,' and then 
I used to meet Constantine — Prince 
Sierotka — in the fields at the bottom of the 
garden. Veiy soon we had both realised 
that we loved one another passionately." 

" But surely your guardian " sug- 
gested Skin o' my Tooth. 

" My guardian was away during the first 
fortnight of my stay in Swanborough. When 
he came, things were very niuch altered. 
Someone — one of the servants, perhaps — had 
evidently spied upon me and had told him 
of my meetings with Prince Sierotka, for he 
read me a long lecture on the subject of 
foreign adventurers and English girls 
with money, and forbade me ever to see 
this Polish Prince again. Of course, I was 
obliged to obey him then, as he kept a pretty 
sharp look-out over my movements, and I 
saw nothing of Constantine for a week ; but 
the moment Mr. Lake went back to town, 
we were able to resume our happy evening 
meetings in the fields. 

" This went on for some time, during 
which my love for my future husband grew 
with every obstacle my guardian placed in 
my way. But Mr. Lake was often obliged 
to be absent from home on business, and you 
may be sure that Constantine and I made 
the most of these happy intervals. We had 
agreed that we should be married as soon as 
I was of age and free to do as I pleased. 
. " During all this time, Mr. Mulligan, I was 
in absolute ignoi*ance of my future financial 
position, and Constantine, with a delicacy 
that was positively sublime, and which put 
to shame Mr. I^ake's cynical insinuations, 
had never asked me any questions on the 
subject. I knew vaguely that my father had 
left me a considerable fortune, under the 
trusteeship of Mr. Lake, and I concluded 
that I should have the use of that fortune 
when I came of age. 

" To my astonishment, however, on my 

- eighteenth birthday, which was the ninth of 

this month, my guardian informed me that 



by the terras of my father's will, I was now 
to become sole mistress of the £40,000 he had 
leffc me. The next day Mr. Lake took me 
up to his office in London and rendered me 
an account of his guardianship ; he then 
placed into my hands three large packets, 
which contained my £40,000 worth of secu- 
rities, chiefly railway and mining shares, he 
said, and told me that I was free now to do 
with them what I pleased. It had been 
ostensibly arranged that I should stay in 
London a few days with some school 
friends of mine, but, secretly, Constantine 
and I had planned to spend long, happy days 
together. I took a room in Victoria Street, 
and he used to come up from Swanborough 
in the mornings sometimes, and we would go 
out to see the sights of London. We meant 
to get married almost immediately, and go 
and live abroad. I was rich now, and we 
could afford to live in the style befitting 
Prince Sierotka's rank." 

She paused. It seemed as if she could not 
continue her narrative ; so far it had been 
one of simple, dehcate love romance, in 
which only the mysterious personality of the 
foreign adventurer appeared as a dim presage 
of coming evil ; now, for the first time since 
the terrible tragedy occurred, the young girl 
— little more than a child— found herself 
forced to speak of it to a stranger, and her 
very nerves must have quivered at the 
ordeal. But Skin o' my Tooth did not 
speak. He sat in the shadow, watching the 
play of every emotion upon the delicately 
chiseled face before him. 

" Last Monday, Mr. MnlJigan," she re- 
sumed at last, with an effort at self-control, 
" Constantine went down to Swanborough in 
the afternoon, after having spent the day 
in town with me. He meant to settle what 
small accounts he had in the village, and 
stay in I^ondon until our marriage. I was 
sitting quietly at tea at a shop yesterday, 
when I heard someone close to me read 
aloud from a newspaper the account of the 
mysterious tragedy at Swanborough. A man 
had been found killed on the level crossing, 
his body and head shockingly mutilated. A 
description of his clothes followed — one or 
two articles found near the body. Oh ! it 
was ttirible, Mr. Mulligan ! From those 
descriptions I knew that the murdered man 
must be mj fiance, Prince Sierotka." 

There was a long silence in the fusty old 
office. Skin o' my Tooth was giving the 
young girl time to recover herself, when he 
said quietly : " It must indeed have been 
hard to bear in your peculiarly isolated 

position. Bnt you have not yet told me 
how I can be of service to you." 

" Oh ! it's about the money, Mr. Mulligan — 
my whole fortune. Prince Sierotka had 
charge of it all, of course, and now I am 

" You need have no fear ; we can easily 
trace those securities for you ; the thief won't 
be able to negotiate them." 

" Oh, the securities ! " she said naively, 
" they were all sold." 

" Indeed ? " was Skin o' my Tooth's very 
dry comment. 

" Yes. At Constantine's suggestion, I 
instructed the brokers, Messrs. Furnival and 
Co., to sell my shares for me. They sent me 
a cheque for £88,000, which I endorsed, and 
Prince Sierotka cashed the cheque. He had 
all the money in notes, and he told me to 
write my name at the back of each. On the 
Monday we went round together to several 
foreign banks, where we changed our English 
notes into foreign money. You see, we 
intended to live in Russia, and meant to 
start for Paris almost immediately." 

I wished then that I could have caught a 
glimpse of Skin o' my Tooth's face ; as it is, 
I thought I heard the peculiar low whistle 
he usually gives when a point in a case 
particularly strikes his fancy. 

"I see," "he said at last. 'And that 
money ? Did the Prince carry it about with 
him ? " 

" He gave me fifty pounds, as I meant to 
go shopping after he left me ; the re- 
mainder he kept in his pocket-book." 

" Hm ! Life's strange ironies ! " 

But, fortunately for her many illusions, the 
young girl did not catch the diift of this 
last remark, for she said with great vehem- 
ence : " You see, now, Mr. Mulligan, that 
there could be no question of accident or 
suicide. Prince Sierotka was murdered and 
robbed, and I have come to you so that you 
may help me to track his murderer." 

"I will do my best," said Skin o' my 
Tooth, with a smile ; " and at the same time, 
we must hope to track your lost fortune for 
you. But I think that is all I need trouble 
you about this morning. Where are you 
staying ? " 

" I am still at 182, Victoria Street." 

"Then I can easily communicate with 
you. I will see the detective-inspector in 
charge of the case, and, of course, let him 
know about the money, which should be 
found in the murderer's possession. Was 
the money French or Russian ? " 
She shook her head. 

"Skin o' my Tooth was looking at the surroundings and at the ground before him." 


THE WlJStnSOR maoazme. 

**I really couldn't tell you. You see, 
Constantine saw to everything." 

Skin o' my Tooth sighed. So much 
naivete and blind confidence would be 
ridiculous were it not sublime. 

Five minutes later I had shown the lady 
downstairs, and when I returned, I found 
Skin o' my Tooth lounging in his big arm- 

" It was a case of biter bit, with a ven- 
geance, wasn't it, sir? " I said, with a laugh, 
whilst I carefully collected my notes. "This so- 
called Prince seei^^s to have been as complete 
a scoundrel as the man who murdered him." 

" Muggins, you're an ass ! " was the only 
comment my esteemed employer made during 
the whole of the rest of that afternoon. 


In the meanwhile the evening papers had 
brought no further news of the Swanborough 
mystery. No trace of the missing platelayer 
had been found, and it was pretty clear that 
at the inquest, which was fixed for to-morrow 
(Friday), the police would have no important 
evidence to add to the scanty scraps already 
collected and published. 

" The authorities at Scotland Yard will 
resent my interference in this case," said 
Skin o' my Tooth to me ; " but I must chance 
that. If I leave them to blunder on, as 
they have done over this murder, I shall 
never get Miss Calvert's money for her, for 
the scoundrel will succeed in slipping through 
our fingers." 

He sent me down to Scotland Yard the 
next morning, to make the necessary declara- 
tion with regard to Prince Sierotka's ante- 
cedents as related to us by Miss Calvert, and 
also to the missing quantity of foreign 
money. The detective-inspector who was 
looking after the case was greatly excited to 
hear my news. 

" This gives us the motive for the crime," 
he said, "and the foreign money in the 
possession of an uneducated Buckinghamshire 
yokel like Stockton is sure to lead to his 
discovery and speedy arrest. At any rate, 
now that we have so much fresh data, I will 
send one of our men — Mason is very capable 
— down to Swanborough again. I will give 
him instructions to place himself at Mr. 
Mulligan's disposal should he require any 
local information." 

When I went back to the office, I found a 
hansom at the door, and Skin o' my Tooth 
waiting for me with his hat on. 

" Come down to Swanborough with me, 
Muofgins," he said. "I have worked out 

this case in my own mind, and I want to 
ascertain, by studying the geography of the 
place, whether I am right or wrong." • ' 

We went down to Swanborough, catching 
the 12.5 p.m. from Euston. It is a couple 
of hours' run on the North- Western line, 
but during the whole of the journey Skin o' 
my Tooth, never spoke a word. He sat 
leaning back in. his corcer, with that funny 
little smile of his playing round the corners 
of his fat month, and the thick lids drooping 
as if in semi-somnolence. But every now 
and then I caught a flash, a steely, almost 
cruel look in his lazy blue eyes, and then his 
nostrils would quiver like those of a hound 
who has just found a scent. I knew those 
symptoms well. I had seen them in him 
whenever the sharp and astute lawyer was for 
the time being merged in the tracker of 
crime. Skin o' my Tooth had all the in- 
stincts of a bloodhound. Placed face to face 
with a murder, he would follow the trail of 
the assassin with almost superhuman cunning. 
He did not deduce, he seldom reasoned ; he 
felt the criminal. I believe firmly that he 
scented him. 

When we steamed into the small country 
station, a little after 2 p.m., we found that 
Mason, the detective, who was personally 
known to Skin o' my Tooth, had come down 
by the previous train. He was standing 
talking to the booking-clerk when my chief 
went up to speak to him. 

I think that he was none too pleased to see 
a lawyer mixed up in a case which he no doubt 
considered strictly the business of the police ; 
but Skin o' my Tooth seemed to have armed 
himself for the afternoon with a limitless 
fund of Irish urbanity. 

" I won't detain you long. Mason," he 
said, with a bland smile. " I should presently 
like to have a look at the body, with you ; 
and in the meanwhile, I daresay, while we 
Walk through the village, you will put me 
au fait of the latest news in connection with 
this interesting case." 

" There is very little news," said Mason, 
witli marked impatience. " The case is a very 
troublesome one ; and if it is meddled with, 
I don't believe we shall ever get at the rights 
of it." 

"I see that you were having a chat with 
the young booking-clerk here," said Skin o' 
my Tooth, quietly ignoring the detective's 
rudeness. " I wonder what his impression 
was of the Polish Prince. So few people 
seem to have seen him ; but, of course, at the 
railway-station they must have known him 
by sight." 



" Tlie porters and the booking-clerk only 
saw liiui once, and that was on the Monday, 
when he came down by an afternoon traiii, 
and one man saw him soon after eleven the 
same evening. It was just after the last 
slow train had gone through, and they were 
closing the booking-office ; he was then 
walking along the line with young Stockton, 
towards the level crossing." 

" What sort of a looking man was he ? " 

" Oh ! a regular foreigner, it appears, with 
thick black hair falling back over his fore- 
head, and a heavy black moustache. He had 
a huge scar right across tlie left side of his 
face — from a wound, I suppose. They say it 
looked like a sabre cut, and it seems to have 
injured his eye as well, for he wore a guard 
over the left one. Anyway, he is quite un- 
recognisable now," he added grimly. 

Mason had led the way along the platform 
while he was talking, and we had followed 
him. He was now walking along the railway 
line, about two paces in front of us. On 
our left a tall and neat hedge fenced off a 
held, and some two hundred yards ahead 
was the level crossing, where a road cut the 
line at right angles. 

About twenty yards from the level crossing 
there was a wide gap in the hedge. Mason 
pointed this out to us. 

" It is supposed that Stockton enticed his 
victim into the field under some pretence or 
other, and rendered him unconscious there, 
then he dragged him on to the metals. This 
gap, Mr. Lake tells me, used to be quite a 
small one. It has obviously been broken 
and widened quite recently." 

" Mr. Lake ? " queried Skin o' my Tooth. 

"Mr. Percival Lake. This field is his 
property ; his house and grounds are at the 
opposite end of it." 

" Oh ! Ah, yes ! I am glad to hear that, 
as I should like to call on Mr. Lake before 
I leave Swanborough to-day." 

We had come to a standstill on the very 
spot where the awful and gruesome murder 
of the mysterious foreign prince had been 
perpetrated. Skin o' my Tooth was looking 
at the surroundings and at the ground before 
him, and every now and then I could hear 
him snorting, and caught sight of that 
weird and quick flash in his eyes which gave 
his jovial, fat face such a cruel look. Then, 
without word or warning, he suddenly 
darted through the gap in the hedge, into 
the field beyond. With an impatient shrug 
of the shoulders. Mason followed him, and 
I brought up the rear. 

It was mid-December, and the ground 

was as hard as nails ; a few patches of dead 
grass only showed here and there. We were 
in a field of about thirty acres, triangular in 
shape, with the same tall hedge surrounding 
it, and the house and grounds forming its 
apex. A road ran on either side of it, con- 
verging towards one another on the other 
side of the house. 

The afternoon had rapidly drawn in. It 
was past three o'clock, and a thick mist had 
descended. Mason followed, with evident 
and unconcealed ill-humour. Skin o' my 
Tooth's peregrinations through that field. 
At first he had offered certain hints and 
volunteered some information, but at last he 
seemed to have resigned himself to the part 
of a bad-tempered man in charge of a lunatic. 

We walked straight across the field to 
where the house and its thick shrubbeiy 
formed its extreme boundary. There, too, 
a small gate led to a cottage and tiny 
garden, which occupied a piece of ground 
that seemed to have been sliced out of 
Mr. LaJ^e's property. 

" It is Mrs. Stockton's cottage," explained 
Mason, in answer to Skin o' my Tooth's 
inquiry. Quite close to the gate there was 
a tool-shed, which seemed to interest Skin o' 
my Tooth immensely, for he lighted match 
after match in order to examine it inside and 
out. However, he expressed no desire to 
view the interior of the cottage, and at last, 
when I was quite numb with fatigue and 
cold, he turned to Mason and said quietly : 
" I am quite ready to go to the station now 
and have a look at the body." 

For a moment I thought that Mason 
meant to go on strike ; but evidently he had 
had his orders, or perhaps he, too, began 
to feel, as I had done so often, that curious 
magnetic influence of Skin o' my Tooth's 
personality, which commands obedience at 
strange moments and in strange places. Be 
that as it may, he refrained from making 
any remark, but passing through the gate 
and cottage garden, he went out into the 
road. About five minutes' brisk and silent 
walk brousht us to the village, and then on 
to the little police-station. Still without a 
word. Mason led the way into an inner room. 
There upon a deal table, and covered over 
with a sheet, lay the body of the murdered 


It is not often— thank Heaven for that ! — 
that I have to go through such unpleasant 
moments in my faithful adherence to my 
duty towards my employer. I shall never 



forget the terrible feeling and sickly horror 
which overcame me when Skin o' my Tooth 
so quietly lifted the sheet which covered the 
dead man. The whole scene is even now 
vividly impressed upon my mind— the small, 
low-raftered room, the oil-lamp hanging 
from the ceiling and throwing its feeble light 
upon the gruesome thing on which I dared 
nob look, and upon the strange, bulky figure, 
so strangely iuipressive at this moment, of 
my chief. Mason stood close by in the 
shadow. I could see that even he did not 
care to cast too long a look at the hopelessly 
mutilated face of *the murdered man. Skin 
o' my Tooth, however, was quite unmoved, 
lie had dropped the sheet, and calmly, one 
1)7 one, he took up each garment from the 
pile of clothes which lay neatly folded beside 
the body. 

" These w^ere found upon the deceased, I 
understand ? " he asked. The detective 

" All," he replied, " except the gloves, 
which were in the grip of the hand." 

"And which this man could never have 
worn," commented Skin o' my Tooth drily, 
'* though they are quite old ; they are two 
sizes too small for the hand." 

There was silence acrain for a few moments ; 
then Skin o' my Tooth, having carefully 
examined each individual garment, put the 
last one down ; then, placing his hand upon 
the pile, he said : " I hope for your sake. 
Mason— and for mine, too, for that matter, 
since it would save arguments — that you have 
arrived at the only possible and complete 
solution of the so-called mystery." . 

" The only mystery in this matter," 
retorted Mason gruffly, "is the real person- 
ality of the deceased. We know who 
murdered him all right enough, though we 
don't know where the murderer may be at 
the present moment." 

" The personality of the deceased is no 
mystery to me. He was a young man named 
Stockton, a platelayer by trade, and an in- 
habitant of this village," said Skin o' my 
Tooth, making this extraordinarv announce- 
ment as if he were stating the most obvious 
and commonplace fact. 

Mason shrugged his shoulders and looked 
almost appealingly at me, as if he wanted 
me to take charge of this raving lunatic. 

" The only thing that puzzles me'' con- 
tinued Skin o' my Tooth imperturbably, " is 
that it never struck any of you gentlemen in 
charge of this case how very badly some 
of these clothes must have fitted this 

" People don't always have their clothes 
cut by a London tailor," muttered Mason 

"Undoubtedly. But in this case the fit 
is so erratic ; while the trousers would be at 
least three-quarters of an inch too long in 
the leg, the coat-sleeves would be at least, an 
inch too short. This man could not have 
had these gloves on at all ; and every time he 
wore these boots, which are not new, he must 
have endured positive tortures, yet he has no 
corns on his feet." 

" The clothes might have been a scratch 
lot, bought at a second-hand clothes shop," 
suggested Mason. 

" A man does not buy second-hand boots 
that are much too small for him." 

" What is your idea, then ? " 

" That they are another man's clothes," 
said Skin o' my Tooth quietly. 

"But " 

"Note one thing more. The suit of 
clothes are good, such as a gentleman might 
wear ; boots, gloves, hat, all are of an .ex- 
pensive kind ; but the underclothes are of 
the commonest and coarsest make." 

" That often happens," muttered Mason 

" It certainly in itself would mean but 
little were it not for the fact that with 
almost superhuman cunning everything has 
been devised in order to completely destroy 
the identity of the victim. From the clothes, 
every tag and some buttons have been 
removed which might bear the tailor's name ;, 
on the forearm, vitriol was used, in order, 
obviously, to obliterate some mark — tattoo, 
perhaps — which might have made the body 
recognisable, whilst the same corrosive 
substance destroyed the finger-nails, which 
might have told a tale," 

" The accepted theory is that deceased 
was engaged in some work which necessitated 
the use of sulphuric acid." 

" That might account for the corroded 
finger-nails, if the man was particularly care- 
less, but not for the wound on the forearm^ 
Think of it all carefully. Mason, and then 
bear in mind the fact that the only person 
who might by chance have identified the 
body, in spite of its mutilation, was also 

" You mean Mrs. Stockton ? " 

" The mother undoubtedly," replied Skin 
o' my Tooth quietly. " Surely you see for 
yourself now that the body we have here 
before us is that of Stockton, the platelayer, 
whereas it is this so-called Prince Sierotka, 
this arch-scoundrel, thief, liar, and assassin. 



' Skin o' my Tooth quietly lifted the 
sheet which covered the dead man." 

who SO far has escaped the vigilance of the 

" You may be right," murmured Mason, 
convinced, as I could see, in spite of himself 
with the firm logic of Skin o' my Tooth's 
arguments ; " but, as far as I can see, you 
have not by any means solved our difficulty. 
It was quite one thing to hunt for a Bucking- 
hamshire yokel, who would be trying to pass 
a quantity of foreign money and could not 
speak any language but his own, and quite 
another to search through the Continent of 
Europe now for a foreigner, of whose real 
appearance I presume even your client, his 
sweetheart, is ignorant." 

" You won't have to search through the 
Continent of Europe, my man," said Skin o' 
my Tooth, with a jovial laugh. " You just 
apply — as quickly as you can, too, for the 
gentleman may slip through your fingers 

yet— for a search-warrant and 

warrant for the arrest of Mr. 

Percival Lake, of Svvanborough. 

You will find most of the 

£38,000 there, in foreign 

money, Russian or French. 

That money belongs to my 

client, Miss Marion Calvert, 

who will file affidavits to this 

effect to-morrow." 

" You are mad ! " re- 
torted Mason. 

" Mad, am I ? " laugh- 
' ed Skin o' my Tooth 
'ovially. " Why, man, 
you know as well as I 
do by now that I am 
right. Why, I guessed 
the trick the moment 
Miss Calvert told me 
her pathetic little 
history ; then I came 
down here, and I saw 
how admirably the 
geography of the 
place was adapted 
to that arch- 
villain's infamous 
plot for robbing 
his young ward. 
Why, you have 
only to remember 
three points to 
realise how abso- 
lutely right I am. 
Point number 
one : Whenever 
Mr. Percival Lake 
was at home, 
Miss Calvert could never see her sweetheart. 
The moment he was supposed to go back to 
town she found him at the trysting-place in 
the field ; but always at night, remember, 
when the disguise, the scar, the black hair, 
would more easily deceive the young girl. It 
was only when he had got her money abso- 
lutely in his possession that he became more 
audacious and saw her in London in broad 

" 1 have always thought that that scar 
and the thick, black hair meant a disguise," 
muttered Mason. "Some people are so clever 
at making up, and Mr. Lake is a little bald 
and clean-shaved." 

" The change of costume was so easy of 
execution with that gonvenient little tool- 
shed in his own shrubbery, secluded from all 
eyes and, until recently, fitted with a good 
lock and key, which have since, very ob- 



viouslj, been removed. Why, nothing in 
the world could be more easy than for an 
arch-scoundrel like that man Lake to osten- 
sibly leave for town in the evening, carrying 
his bag, and, walking through his field, to 
spend the night in the tool-shed, and emerge 
therefrom in the very early morning as 
Prince Sierotka ; then to repeat this per- 
formance whenever the foreign adventurer 
had to resume his original part of Mr. 
Percival Lake, Miss Calvert's stern guardian. 
Add to this point number two — that the 
man who played the trick on Miss Calvert 
must have known all about her financial 
position and the full terms of her father's 
will, by which she came of age at eighteen." 

" That certainly brings it nearer home to 
Lake than ever. And your third point, 
Mr. Mulligan ? " 

" That this so-called foreigner was supposed 
to have gone up to London from Swan- 
borough very frequently during the week, 
when he met Miss Calvert in town nearly 
every day, and helped her to transfer her 
English securities into foreign money, and 
yet no one at the Swanborough railway- 
station had ever seen him before the night 
of the murder. Then, he wished to show 
himself, openly, in the company of the 
platelayer, so that, when he had murdered 
Stockton and dressed up his body in his own 
cast-oif disguise, everyone should fancy that 
they recognised in the mangled remains the 
personality of the Polish Prince. He did 
the murder at dead of night, of course, and 

in the privacy of his own fields ; he used 
vitriol where marks of identification might 
reveal the platelayer ; then he murdered Mrs. 
Stockton and slipped home quietly to bed. 
I dare say his wife was an accomplice. Some 
women are very loyal or very obedient to 
their husbands. But come along, Muggins," 
he said, suddenly altering the tone of his 
voice and turning to me ; " we shall miss 
that 6.30 up to London. It must be nearly 
that now, and Mason will want to think all 
this over." 

" No, I don't, sir," said Mason firmly. " I 
am going up to town with you, if you will 
allow me." 

" What for ? " 

" To report myself and to get a warrant 
for the arrest of Mr. Percival Lake." 

Everyone remembers the arrest of Mr. 
Percival Lake on a double charge of murder. 
In his safe at his house in Swanborough 
were found French and Russian notes 
amounting in value to about £38,000. 
Tracked to earth, the scoundrel made but a 
poor defence. Fortunately for his relations, 
since he was well connected, he died of sudden 
heart failure during the subsequent magis- 
terial inquiry, and was never committed for 

This all happened three years ago. Miss 
Calvert is married now, and has evidently 
forgotten her former passionate love for the 
mysterious Polish patriot. 


\JL7HEN Sylvia to her garden goes, 

I envy every flower there; 
And most of all the favoured rose, 
When Sylvia to her garden goes. 
It gladly dies because it knows 
It first will nestle in her hair. 
When Sylvia to her garden goes, 
I envy every flower there. 

The rose that Sylvia deigns to wear 

Is happy in its death, 

Though no fresh charm to her can bear 

The rose that Sylvia deigns to wear ; 

It breathes its soul forth from her hair 

And mingles with her breath; 

The rose that Sylvia deigns to wear 

Is happy in its death. 



Now do tfell me — do you sit down and dream out your pictures, or 

She : I do so love art, Mr. Dauber 

do you work from inspiration ? 
Practical R.A. (wearily) : My dear young lady, 1 work from ten to three. 


A CLERGYMAN was explaining to his Sunday- 
school the difference between the Jewish and the 
Christian festivals. At the close of the lesson, 
when he asked for the name of any festival 
peculiar to the Christian Church, he was delighted 
to see the two " bad boys " of the class hold out 
their hands. His delight was modified, however, 
when the first boy volunteered the suggestion, 
" Bank Holiday '* ; and when the second, not to 
be beaten, burst forth with "Carlisle races, sir," 
he felt thnt his efforts had not been entirely 
crowned with success. But to err is human ! 

Mistress (to new maid) : Your former master 
was rather an invalid, wasn't he, Bridget ? 

Bridget : Shure, an' he was ; ivery week he 
wad retoire to his bed fur a fortnoight ! 

" You ought to know about Shadrach, Meshach, 
and Abednego," said the teacher ; " all their names 
were read in this morning's service." 

" Mebbe their banns ivere put up," was the 
reply, " but they're not Slocum folk ! " 

The country lad is always put down as a 
" dullard " in every sense of the word, but the 
following story will prove that such is not always 
the case, and that sometimes he is exceedingly 
sharp and witty. The particular lad I am speak- 
ing of was one^of a family of seven, all brought up 
on the farm. He was one day driving a lot of 
young pigs alon^c the road to the sale, when a prim 
young curate, just down from Oxford, met him at 
a junction of three roads and interrogated the 
youth as follows : " Where does this road go t^ 
my lad ? " To which he got : *' Don't go anywhere 
as 1 knows on." " Well, where does that road 
take you to?" asked the curate, pointing up one of 
the roads. " Don't take yer nowhere as 1 knows 
on," replied the lad. 'J^he curate scarcely knew 
what to say, but tried again. " Where does that 
one take you to ? " pointing up the rem-dning road. 
*' An' that don't take yer nowhere neither— none 
of 'em goes anywhere — they're always 'ere when T 
comes this way, and none of 'em ever took me 
anywhere; but. this way leads to Patsley, that 
way leads to Framley, and thnt to By ton," replied 
the lad, as he pointed with his stick in the various 
directions. The young man of the Cloth felt 
like kicking the youth, and thought he v/ould 
administer a lesson to him, so he said : " My lad, 




A mattb:r of recognition. 

Major (fco sentry, who has failed to salute him) : Do 

you know who I am ? 
Recruit (fresh from the North) : JSTae ; do ye ken me ? 

who do these i)igs belong to ? " 1'he lad answered : 
"The maister." "And who is master of 'em?" 
asked the curate. The lad giggled as he replied : 
*' Well, sir, I think as how that little sandy 'un 
with the black ears is, for he's a little beggar to 
fight." The curate hurried on, saying a lot under 
his breath about that lad, but thoroughly con- 
vinced that he'd got plenty to learn yet. 

The excuses given by small boys for their 
absence from school, when they have been playing 
truant, are generally moulded on home duties. 

The following is a true instance : — 

Teacher (to a well-known six-year-old offender) : 
Willie Hart, why weren't you at school yesterday? 

Willie Hart (with a saintly look) : 'Ad to 
stay at 'ome to mind the baby, teacher. 

This was too much for a neighbour of his, who 
excitedly called out — 

, " Teacher 1 they ain't got no baby at their 'ouse I " 
i Then Wilhe took part in a striking tragedy in 
one act. 

An infant-school head-mistress, expecting a 
visit from an inspector who was always on the 
qui vive for bad discipline, thinking by timely 
judicious warning to avoid any complaint, said to 
her scholars — 

"Now, children, when the inspector comes, 
be very careful to sit quite still and behave pro- 
perly, because while he is talking to me, and you 
think he can't see you, he will be looking at you 
out of the corner of his eye and noticing every- 
thing you do." 

Here a young hopeful frantically called out — 

" Groverness 1 Governess 1 " 

" Yes, Alec Eden." 

" Governess ! I say, ain't 'e artful ? " 

Collapse of governess. 

Rural Agitator (to the assembled inhabitants of DuUbro', ten miles from everywhere) : Well, my frien's, if 
the Gov'ment closes the public-'ouse o' Sundays, will they throw open yer museums, yer picksher 
gaU'ries, an' yer libraries? 


Sweet Seventeen (to Jones, who has come out first ball} : What a pity you didn't have the other man 
to bowl for you ! He always manages to hit the bat. 




A long way after Tennyson. 

THE splendour falls on cast-steel walls 
Of flying racers grim and gory ; 
The chauffeur shakes the shining brakes, 
And the wild auto leaps in glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow ; 

Set the wild public flying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes— 

" Dying, dying, dying ! " 

O hark! O hear! now far, now near, 
Then fainter, clearer, farther going — 

Beyond the red of maimed and dead 
The horns of swelldom faintly blowing ! 

Blow, bugle, blow 

From the wild auto flying. 

And answer, echoes, answer — 
"Dying, dying, dying!" 

Oh, see them fly toward yon sky 
And fall on pave and field and river! 

Our autos roll o'er each poor soul, 
And run for ever and for ever. 

Blow, bugle, blow ; 

Set the doomed people flying — 
What if each echoes answer you : 

" Dying, dying, dying " ? 



Mother : Didn't you hear me call, Tommy ? 
Tommy : No ! You shouted so loud it made me deaf, 


From the Pictuke by Alfred Seifert. 

Copyright by Franz Ifanfstaengl, Munich. 



S literature, it is 
beneath con- 
tempt. It 
concerns the 
turning - circle, 
and inner gear 
of every ship 
in the British 
Navy — the 
whole embel- 
lished with 
profile-plates. The Teuton approaches the 
matter with pagan thoroughness ; the 
Muscovite runs him close ; but the Graul, 
ever an artist, breaks enclosure to study 
the morale, at the present day, of the British 

In this, I conceive, he is from time to 
time aided by the zealous amateur, though 
I find very little in his dispositions to show 
that he relies on that amateur's hard-won 
information. There exists — unhke some 
other publication, it is not bound in lead 
boards—a report by one " M. de C," based 
on the absolutely unadorned performances 
of one of our well-known Acolyte type of 
cruisers. It contains nothing that did not 
happen. It covers a period of two days ; 
runs to twenty-seven pages of large type 
exclusive of appendices ; and carries as 
many exclamation points as the average 
French novel. 

I read it with care, from the adorably 
finished prologue — it is the disgrace of our 
Navy that we cannot produce a com- 
missioned officer capable of writing one page 
of lyric prose — to the eloquent, the joyful, 
the vindictive end ; and my first notion was 
that I had been cheated. In this sort of 
book-collecting you will see how entirely the 
bibliophile lies at the mercy of his agent. 

M. de 0., I read, opened his campaign by 
stowing away in one of her boats what time 
H.M.S. Archimandrife lay off Funchal. M. 
de C. was, always on behalf of his country, 
a Madeira Portuguese fleeing from the con- 

* Copyright, 1903, by Kudyard Kipling, in the 
United States of America. All rights reserved. 

August, 1903. 


scription. They discovered him eighty miles 
at sea and bade him assist the cook. So 
far, this seemed fairly reasonable. Next 
day, thanks to his histrionic powers and his 
ingratiating address, he was promoted to the 
rank of " supernumerary captain's servant " 
—''post which," I give his words, " I flatter 
myself, was created for me alone, and fur- 
nished me with opportunities unequalled for 
a task in which one malapropos word would 
have been my destruction." 

From this point onward, earth and water 
between them held no marvels like to those 
M. de C. had " envisaged "—if I translate 
him correctly. It became clear to me that 
M. de 0. was either a pyramidal liar, or . . . 

I was not acquainted mill any officer, 
seaman, or marine in the Archimandrite; 
but instinct told me I could not go far 
wrong if I took a third-class ticket to Ply- 

I gathered information on the way from a 
leading stoker, two seamen-gunners, and an 
odd hand in a torpedo - factory. Tbey 
merrily set my feet on tlie right path, and 
that led me through the alleys of Devon port 
to a public-house not fifty yards from the 
water. We drank with the proprietor, a 
huge, yellowish man called Tom Wessels ; 
and when my guides had departed, I asked 
if he could produce any warrant or petty 
ofiScer of the Archimandrite, 

" The Bedlamite, d'you mean — 'er last 
commission, when they all went crazy ? " 

"Shouldn't wonder," I replied. "Fetch 
me a sample, and I'll see." 

" You'll excuse me, o' course, but — what 
d'you want 'im for ? " 

"I want to make him drunk. I want to 
make you drunk — if you like. I want to 
make him drunk here." 

" Spoke very 'andsome. I'll do what I 
can." He went out towards the water that 
lapped at the foot of the street. I gathered 
from the pot-boy that he was a person of in- 
fluence beyond Admirals. 

In a few minutes I heard the noise of an 
advancing crowd, and the voice of Mr. 

" 'E only wants to make you drunk at 

S 2 



'is expense. Dessay 'e'll stand you all a 
drink. Come up an' look at 'im. 'E don't 

A square man, with remarkable eyes, 
entered at the head of six large bluejackets. 
Ikhind them gathered a contingent of hope- 
ful free-drinkers. 

" 'E's the only one I could get. Trans- 
ferred to the Postulant six months back. I 
found 'im quite accidental." Tom beamed. 

"I'm in charge o' the cutter. 'Arf our 
officers are dinin' on the Ibeach. They won't 
be 'ome till morninV' said the square man 
with the remarkable eyes. 

" Are you an Archimandrite ? " I de- 

" That's me. I was, as you might say." 

" 'Old on. I'm a Archimafidrite.'' A Red 
Marine with moist eyes tried to climb on the 
table. " Was you lookin' for a Bedlamite ? 
I've —I've been invalided, an' what with that, 
an' visitin' my family 'ome at Lewes, per'aps 
I've come late. 'Ave I ? " 

" You've 'ad all that's good for you," said 
Tom Wessels, as the Red Marine sat cross- 
legged on the floor. 

" There are those 'oo 'aven't 'ad a thing 
yet ! " cried a voice by the door. 

" I will take this Archimandrite,'' I said, 
" and this Marine. Will yoil^please give the 
boat's crew a drink now, and another in half 
an hour if-— if Mr. " 

"Pyecroft," said the square man. 
" Emanuel Pyecroft, second-class petty- 

" —Mr. Pyecroft doesn't object ? " 

" 'B don't. Clear out. Goldin', you 
picket the hill by yourself, throwin' out a 
skirmishin' line in ample time to let me 
know when Number One's comin' down 
from 'is vittles." 

The crowd dissolved. We passed into the 
quiet of the inner bar, the Red Marine 
zealously leading the way. 

" And what do you drink, Mr. Pyecroft ? " 
I said. 

" Only water. Warm water, with a little 
whisky an' sugar an' per'aps a lemon." 

"Mine's beer," said the Marine. "It 
always was." 

" Look 'ere, Glass. You take an' go to 
sleep. The picket'll be comin' for you in 
a little time, an' per'aps you'll 'ave slep' it 
off by then. What's your ship, now ? " 

" 'Oo cares ? " said the Red Marine 
magnificently, and shut his eyes. 

" That's right," said Mr. Pyecroft. " E's 
safest where 'e is. An' now — 'ere's sa,nty to 
us all ! — what d'you want o' me ? " 

" I want to read you something." 
" Tracts, again ! " said the Marine, never 
opening his eyes. "Well, I'm game. . . . 
A little more 'ead to it, miss, please." 

" 'E thinks 'e's drinkin' — lucky beggar ! " 
said Mr. Pyecroft. 

"I'm agreeable to be read to. 'Twon't 
alter my convictions. I may as well tell 
you before-'and I'm a Plymouth Brother." 

He composed his face with the air of one 
in the dentist's chair, and I began at the 
third page of "M. de C." 

'^ ^ At the moment of asphyxiation^ for I 
had hidden myself under the hoaVs cover, I 
heard footsteps upon the superstructure and 
coughed IV ith empress' — coughed loudly, Mr. 
Pyecroft. ' By this time I judged the vessel 
to be sufficientlg far from land. A number cf 
sailors extricated me amid language appro- 
priate to their national brutality. I responded 
thai I named myself Antonio, and that I 
sought to save myself from the Portuguese 
conscription.' " . 

" Ho ! " said Mr. Pyecroft, and the fashion 
of his countenance changed. Then pen- 
sively : " Ther beggar I What might you 
'ave in your 'and there ? " 

" It's the story of Antonio — a stowaway 
in the Archimandrite's cutter. A French 
spy when he's at home, I fancy. What do 
you know about it ? " 

"An' I thought it was tracts! An' yet 
some'ow I didn't." Mr. Pyecroft nodded 
his head wonderingly. " Our old man was 
quite right— so was 'Op— so was I. 'Ere, 
Glass ! '' He kicked the Marine. " 'Ere's 
our Antonio 'as written a impromptu book ! 
He ivas a spy all right." 

The Red Marine turned slightly, speaking 
with the awful precision of the half -drunk. 
" 'As 'e got anythin' in about my 'orrible 
death an' execution ? Excuse me, but if 
I open my eyes, I shan't be well. That's 
where I'm different from all other men." 

"What about Glass's execution ?" de- 
manded Pyecroft. 

" The book's in French," I replied. 

"Then it's no good to me." 

" Precisely. Now I want you to tell your 
story just as it happened. I'll check it by 
this book. Take a cigar. I know about his 
being dragged out of the cutter. AYhat I 
want to know is what was the meaning 
of all the other things, because they're 

"They were," said Mr. Pyecroft w^th 
emphasis. " Lookin' back on it as I set here, 
more an' more I see what a 'ighly unusual 
affair it was. But it 'appened. It transpired 



in the Archimandrite — the ship jou can trust. 
. . . Antonio ! Ther beggar ! " 
" Take your time, Mr. Pjecroft." 
In a few moments we came to it thus — 
" The old man was displeased. I don't 
deny he was quite a little displeased. With 
the mail-boats trottin' into Madeira every 
twenty minutes, he didn't see why a lop- 
eared Portugee had to take liberties with 
a man-o'-w^ar's first cutter. Any'ow, we 
couldn't turn ship round for 'im. We drew 
'im out and took 'im to our Number One. 
' Drown 'im,' 'e says. * Drown 'im before 'e 

Buddha, aud whimpered sadly : " Pye don't 
see any fun in it at all." 

" (7<??2scription — come to 'is illegitimate 
sphere in Her Majesty's Navy, an' it was 
just then that old 'Op, our Yeomen of 
Signals, an' a fastidious joker, made remarks 
to me about 'is 'ands. 

" * Those 'ands,' says 'Op, ' properly con- 
sidered, never done a day's honest labour in 
their life. Tell me those 'ands belong to a 
blighted Portugee manual laborist, and I 
won't call you a liar, but I'll say you an' the 
Admiralty are pretty much alike in your 

' Drown 'im,' 'e says. ' Drown 'im before 'e dirties my fine new decks.' ' 

dirties my fine new decks.' But our owner 
was tender-hearted. ' Take 'im to the 
galley,' 'e says. ' Boil 'im ! Skin 'im ! 
Cook 'im ! Cut 'is bloomin' 'air ! Take 'is 
bloomin' number ! 'E'll get three months 
on Cape Town Breakwater for this, any'ow\' 

" Retallick, our chief cook, an' a Carth'lic, 
was the on'y one any way near grateful 4 
bein' short'anded in the galley. 'E annexes 
the blighter by the left ear an' right foot 
an' sets *im to work peelin' potatoes. ^ So 
then, this Antonio that was avoidin' the 
conscription " 

" iS'wZ^scription, you pink-eyed matlow ! " 
said 'the Marine, with the face of a stone 

statements.' 'Op was always a fastidious 
joker— in his language as much as anything 
else. 'E pursued 'is investigations with the 
eye of an 'awk outside the galley. 'E knew 
better than to advance line-ahead against 
Retallick, so 'e attacked ong eshlowj^ speakin' 
his remarks as much as possible into the 
breach of the starboard four-point-seven, an' 
'ummin' to 'imself. Our chief cook 'ated 
'ummin'. ' What's the matter of your 
bowels ? ' 'e says at last, fistin' out the mess- 
pork agitated like. 

" * Don't mind m^,' says 'Op. ' I'm only 
a mildewed buntin'-tosser,' 'e says ; * but 
speakin' for my mess, I do 'ope,' 'e says, 



' you ain't goin' to boil your Portiigee 
friend's boots along o' that pork you're 
smellin' so gay ! ' 

"'Boots ! Boots ! Boots ! ' says Retallick, 
an' 'e run round like a earwig in a aldei'- 
stalk. ' Boots in the galley,' 'e says. 

"'Those 'ands,' says 'Op, 'properly considered, never done a day's 
honest labour in their life.'" 

' Cook's mate, cast out an' abolish this cutter- 
cuddlin' nhovigMs boots.' 

" They was hove overboard in quick time, 
an' that was what 'Op was lyin' to for. As 
subsequently transpired. 

" ' Fine Arab arch to that cutter- 
cuddler's hinstep,' 'e says to me. ' Eun 
your eye over it, Pye,' 'e says. * Nails all 
present an' correct,' 'e says. 'Bunion on 
the little toe, too,' 'e says ; ' which comes 
from W'carin' a tight boot. What do you 
think ? ' 

" ' Dook in trouble, per'aps,' I says. ' 'E 
ain't got the hang of spud-skinnin'.' No 
more 'e 'ad. 'E was simply can nibalizin' 'em. 

" ' I want to know what 'e 'as got the 
'ang of,' says 'Op, obstructed-like. ' Watch 
'im,' lie says. ' Those shoulders were foreign- 
drilled somewhere.' 

"When it come to *Down 'ammicks ! ' which 
is our naval way o' goin' to bye-bye, I took 
particular trouble over Antonio, 'oo 'ad 'is 
'ammick 'ove at 'im with general instruc- 
tions to sling it ^ft' b^ gugared. In the 

ensnin' melly I pioneered 'im to the after- 
'atch, which is a orifice communicatin' with 
the after-flat an' similar suites of apartments. 
'E 'avin' navigated at three-fifths power im- 
mejit ahead o' me, /wasn't goin' to volunteer 
any assistance, nor 'e didn't need it. 

" ' Mong Jew ! ' says 'e, sniffin' round. 
An' twice more, ' Mong Jew ! ' — which is 
pure French. Then 'e slings 'is 'ammick, 
nips in, an' coils dowm. 'Not bad for a 
Portugee conscript,' I says to myself, casts 
off the tow, abandons 'im, and reports 
to 'Op. 

"About three minutes later, I'm over'auled 
by our sub-loo tenant, navigatin' under forced 
draught, with 'is bearin's 'eated. 'E 'ad the 
temerity to say I'd instructed our Antonio to 
sling 'is carcass in the alleyway, an' 'e was 
peevish about it. 0' course, I prevaricated 
'ike 'ell. You get the 'ang of it in the 
service. Nevertheless, 
to oblige Mr. Ducane, 
I w'ent an' readjusted 
Antonio. You may 
not 'ave ascertained 
that there are two 
ways o' comin' out of 
an 'ammick wdien it's 
cut down. Antonio 
came out t'other way 
— slidin' 'andspme to 
'is feet. That showed 
me two things. First, 
'e 'ad been in an 
'ammick before, an' 
next, 'e 'ad n't been asleep. Then I re- 
proached 'im for goin' to bed where 'e'd 
been told to go, instead o' standin' by till 
someone give 'im entirely contradictory 
orders. Which is the essence o' naval 

" In the middle o' this argument the 
gunner protrudes 'is ram bow from 'is cabin, 
an' brings it all to an 'urried conclusion with 
some remarks suitable to 'is piebald warrant 
rank. Navigatin' thence under easy steam, 
an' leavin' Antonio to re-sling 'is little 
foreign self, my large flat foot comes in 
detonatin' contact with a small objec' on the 
deck. Not 'altin' for the obstacle, nor 
changin' step, I shuffles it along under the 
ball of the big toe to the foot o' the 'atch- 
way, when, lightly stoopin', I catch it in my 
right 'and and continue my evolutions in 
rapid time till I eventuates under 'Op's 

" It was a small moroccer-bound pocket- 
book, full of indelible - pencil writin'-^in 
FrQuchy for I could plainly discern the 



doodeladays^ which is about as far as mj 
education runs. 

" 'Op fists it open and peruses. 'E'd 
known an 'arf -caste Frenchwoman pretty 
intricate before he was married when 'e was 
trained man on a stinkin' gunboat up the 
Saigon Kiver. 'E understood a lot o' French 
— domestic brands chiefly — the kind that 
isn't in print. 

u i YjQ^^ 'g gg^yg |.^ ^^^ i you're a tattician 
o' no mean value. I am a trifle shady about 
the precise bearin' an' import o' this beggar's 
private log 'ere,' 'e says, ' but it's evidently a 
case for the owner. You'll 'ave your share 
o' the credit,' 'e says. 

" ' Nay — nay, Pauline,' I says. ' You 
don't catch Emanuel Pyecroft mine-droppin' 
under any post-captain's bows,' I says, 'in 
search of honour,' I says. ' Fve been there 

" ' Well, if you must, you must,' 'e says, 
takin' me up quick. ' But I'll speak a good 
word for you, Pye.' 

" * Yon'll shut your mouth, 'Op,' I says, ' or 
you an' me'll part brass-rags. The owner 
'as 'is duties, an' I 'ave mine. We will keep 
station,' I says, * nor seek to deviate.' 

" ' Deviate to blazes ! ' says 'Op. ' I'm 
goin' to deviate to the owner's comfortable 
cabin direct.' So he deviated." 

Mr. Pyecroft leaned forward and dealt the 
Marine a large pattern Navy kick. " 'Ere, 
Glass ! You was sentry when 'Op went to 
the old man — the first time, with Antonio's 
washin' - book. Tell us what transpired. 
You're sober. You don't know 'ow sober 
you are ! " 

The Marine cautiously raised his head a few 
inches. As Mr. Pyecroft said, he was sober 
— after some P.M. L.I. fashion of his own 
devising. " 'Op bounds in like a startled 
anteloper, carryin' 'is signal-slate at the 
ready. The old man was settin' down to 'is 
bountiful platter — not like you an' me, with- 
out anythin' more in sight for an 'ole night 
an' arf a day. Talkin' about food " 

" No ! No ! No ! " cried Pyecroft, kicking 
again. " What about 'Op ? " I thought the 
Marine's ribs would have snapped, but he 
merely hiccupped. 

" Oh, 'im ! 'E 'ad it written all down on 
'is little slate — I think — an' 'e shoves it 
under the old man's nose. * Shut the door,' 
says 'Op. 'For 'Eavin's sake, shut the 
cabin door ! ' Then the old man must ha' 
said somethin' 'bout irons. 'I'll put 'em 
on, sir, in your very presence,' says 'Op, 
'only 'ear my prayer,' or — words to that 
'feet. ... It was jus' the same with me, 

when I called our Sergeant a bladder-bellied, 
lard-'eaded, perspirin' pension cheater. They 
on'y put on the charge-sheet ' words to that 
effect.' Spoiled the 'ole 'feet." 

" 'Op ! 'Op ! 'Op ! What about 'Op ? " 
thundered Pyecroft. 

"'Op? Oh, shame thing. Words t' 
that 'feet. Door shut. Nashin' more 
transhpired till 'Op comes out — nose 
exshtreme angle plungin' fire or — or words 
'that effect. Proud 's parrot. 'Oh, you 
prou' old parrot,' I says." 

Mr. Glass seemed to slumber again. 

" Lord ! 'Ow a little moisture disin- 
tegrates, don't it ? When we 'ad ship's 
theatricals off Yigo, Glass 'ere played Dick 
Deadeye to the moral, though of course the 
lower deck wasn't pleased to see a leatherneck 
interpretin' a strictly maritime part, as you 
might say. It's only 'is repartees, which 'e 
can't contain, that conquers 'im. Shall I 
resume my narrative ? " 

Another drink was brought on this hint, 
and Mr. Pyecroft resumed. 

"The essence o' strategy bein' fore- 
thought, the essence o' tatties is surprise. 
Per'aps you didn't know that ? My fore- 
thought 'avin' secured the initial advantage 
in attack, it remained for the old man to 
ladle out the surprise-packets. 'Eavens ! 
What surprises ! That night he dines with 
the wardroom, bein' of the kind — Fve 
told you we were a 'appy ship ?— tliat likes 
it, and the wardroom liked it too. This 
ain't common in the service. They 'ad up 
the new Madeira— awful undisciplined stuff 
which gives you a cordite mouth next 
mornin'. They told the mess-men to 
navigate towards the extreme an' remote 
'orizon, an' they abrogated the sentry about 
fifteen paces out of earshot. Then they 'ad 
in the Gunner, the Bo'sun, an' the Carpenter, 
an' stood them large round drinks. It all 
come out later —wardroom joints bein' lower 
deck 'ash, as the sayin' is — that Number One 
stuck to it that 'e couldn't trust the ship for 
the job. The old man swore 'e could, 'avin' 
commanded 'er over two yeai's. 'E was 
right. There wasn't a ship, I don't care in 
what fleet, could come near the Archiman' 
drifes when we give our mind to a thing. 
We 'eld the cruiser big-gun records, the sail- 
ing-cutter (fancy-rig) championship, an' the 
challenge-cup row round the fleet. We 'ad 
the best nigger-minstrels, the best football an' 
cricket teams, an' the best squee-jee band of 
anything that ever pushed in front of a 
brace o' twizzlin' screws. An' yet Number 
One mistrusted us ! 'E said we'd be a 



floatin' 'ell in a week, an' it 'ud take the rest 
o' the commission to stop our way. They 
was arguin' it in the wardroom when the 
bridge reports a light three points off the 
port bow. We overtakes 'er, switches on 
our searchlight, an' she discloses 'erself as a 
collier o' no mean reputation, makin' about 
seven knots on 'er lawful occasions — to the 
Cape most like. 

"Then the owner— so we 'eard in good 
time— sprung 'is tatties : all mines together 
at close interval. 

" * Look 'ere, my jdkers,' 'e says (I'm 
givin' the grist of 'is arguments, remember), 

* Number One says we can't enlighten this 
cutter-cuddlin' Gaulish lootenant on the 
manners an' customs o' the Navy without 
makin' the ship a market-garden. There's a 
lot in%at,' 'e says, ' 'specially if we kept it 
up lavish, till we reached Cape Town. 
But,' 'e says, * the appearance o' this strange 
sail 'as put a totally new aspect on the game. 
We can run to just one day's amusement for 
our friend, or else what's the good o' 
discipline ? An' then we can turn 'im over 
to our presumably short -'anded fellow- 
subject in the small-coal line out yonder. He'll 
be pleased,' says the old man, 'an' so will 
Antonio. M'rover,' 'e says to Number One, 

* I'll lay you a dozen o' liquorice an' ink ' — 
it must ha' been that new tawny port — 
' that I've got a ship I can trust — for one 
day,' 'e says. ' Wherefore,' 'e says, ' will you 
'ave the blighted goodness to reduce speed 
as requisite for keepin' a proper distance 
be'ind this providential tramp till further 
orders ? ' Now that's what I call tatties. 

"The other manoeuvres developed next 
day, strictly in accordance with the plans as 
laid down in the wardroom, where they sat 
long an' steady. 'Op whispers to me that 
Antonio was a Number One spy when 'e was 
in commission, and a French lootenant when 
'e was paid off, so I navigated at three 
'undred an' ninety-six revolutions to the 
galley, never 'avin' kicked a lootenant up 
to date. I may as well say that I did not 
manoeuvre against 'im as a Frenchman, 
because I like Frenchmen, but stric'ly on 'is 
rank an' ratin' in 'is own navy. I inquired 
after 'is 'ealth from Retallick. 

" ' Don't ask me,' 'e says, sneerin' be'ind 
'is silver spectacles. ' 'E's promoted to be 
captain's second supernumerary servant, to 
be dressed and addressed as such. If 'e 
does 'is dooties same as he skinned the spuds, 
/ ain't for changin' with the old man.' 

" In the balmy dawnin' it was give out, 
all amongthe 'olystones,byour sub-lootenant, 

who was a three-way-discharge devil, that all 
orders after ei^ht bells was to be executed in 
inverse ratio to the cube o' the velocity. 
' The reg'lar routine,' 'e says, ' was arrogated 
for reasons o' state an' policy, an' any Hat- 
foot who presumed to exhibit surprise, 
annoyance, or amusement, would be slightly 
but firmly reproached.' Then the Gunner 
mops up an' 'eathenish large detail for some 
hanky-panky in the magazines, an' led 'em 
off along with our Gunnery Jack, which is to 
say, our Gunnery Lootenant. 

"That put us on the viva voce — par- 
ticularly w4ien we understood 'ow the owner 
was navigatin' abroad in 'is sword - belt 
trustin' us like brothers. We shifts into the 
dress o' the day, an' w^e musters, an' we prays 
ong reggle, an' we carries on anticipatory to 
batflin' Antonio. 

" Then our kSergeant o' Marines come to 
me wringin' 'is 'ands an' weepin'. 'E'd been 
talkin' to the sub-lootenant, an' it looked 
like as if 'is upper-works were collapsin'. 

" ' I want a guarantee,' 'e says, wringin' 'is 
'ands like this. ' / 'aven't 'ad sunstroke 
slave-dhowin' in Tajurrah Bay, an' been 
compelled to live on quinine an' chlorodyne 
ever since. / don't get the horrors off two 
glasses o' brown sherry.' 

" ' What 'ave you got now ? ' I says. 

" ' / ain't an officer,' 'e says. ' My sword 
won't be handed back to me at the end o' 
the court-martial on account o' my little 
weaknesses, an' no stain on my character. 
I'm only a pore beggar of a Red Marine with 
eighteen years' service, an' why for,' says 'e, 
wringin' 'is 'ands like this all the time, ' must 
I chuck away my pension — sub-lootenant or 
no sub-lootenant ? Look at 'em,' 'e says, 
'only look at 'em. Marines fallin' in for 
small-arm drill ! ' 

" The leathernecks w^as layin' aft at the 
double, an' a more insanitary set of accidents 
I never wish to be'old. Most of 'em was in 
their shirts. They had their trousers on, of 
course — rolled up nearly to the knee, but what 
I mean is belts over shirts. Three or four 'ad 
our caps, an' them that 'ad drawn 'elmets 
wore their chin-straps like Portugee earrings. 
Oh, yes ; an' three of 'em 'ad only one boot ! 
I knew what our bafflin' tatties was goin' to 
be, but even I was mildly surprised when 
this 'ole fantasia of Brazee drummers 'alted 
under the poop, because of an 'ammick in 
charge of our navigator an' a small but 
'ighly efficient landin'-party. 

" ' 'Ard astern both screws ! ' says the 
navigator. 'Room for the captain's 'am- 
mick ! ' The captain's servant — Cockburn 

'Only 'nother case of attempted assassination, sir,' he says." 



with the 



'is name was — 'ad one end, an' our newly 
promoted Antonio, in a blue slop-rig, 'ad the 
other. They slung it from the muzzle of 
the port poop quick-firer thort-ships to a 
stanchion. Then the old man flickered up, 
smokin' a cigarette, an' brought 'is stern to 
an anchor slow an' oriental. 

"'What a blessin' it is, Mr. Ducane,' 'e 
says to our sub-lootenant, ' to be out o' sight 
o' the 'ole pack o' blighted admirals ! What's 
an admiral, after all ? ' 'e says. ' Why, 'e's 
only a post - captain 
Ducane. The drill will 
now proceed. What 
! Antonio, descendez 
an' get me a split.' 

When Antonio came 
back with the whisky- 
an'-soda, 'e was told 
off to swing the 'am- 
mick in slow time, 
an' that massacritin' 
small-arm party went 
on with their oratorio. 
The Sergeant 'ad been 
kindly excused from 
participatin', an' 'e was 
jumpin' round on the 
poop-ladder stretchin' 
'is leather neck to see 
the disgustin' exhibi- 
tion an' cluckin' like a 
ash-hoist. A lot of 
us went on the fore 
an' aft bridge an' 
watched 'em like 
' Listen to the Band 
in the Park.' All 
these evolutions, T 
may as well tell you, 
are 'ighly unusual in 
the Xavy. After ten 
minutes o' muckin' 
about. Glass ere — pity 
'e's so drunk ! — says 
that 'e'd 'ad enough 
exercise for 'is simple 

needs an' 'e wants to go 'ome. Mr. 
Ducane catches 'im a sanakatowzer of a 
smite over the 'ead with the flat of 'is sword. 
Down comes Glass's rifle with language to 
correspond, an' 'e fiddles with the bolt. Up 
jumps Maclean — 'oo was a Gosport 'ighlander 
— an' lands on Glass's neck, thus bringin' 
'im to the deck, fully extended. 

" The old man makes a great show o' 
wakin' up from sweet slumbers. ' Mistah 
Ducane,' 'e says, ' what is this painful inter- 
regnum ? ' or words to that effect. Ducane 

takes one step to the front, an' salutes : 
' Only 'nother case of attempted assassina- 
tion, sir,' he says. 

" ' Is that all ? ' says the old man, while 
Maclean sits on Glass's collar-button. ' Take 
'im away,' 'e says ; ' 'e knows the penalty.' " 

'' Ah ! I suppose that is the ' invincible 
morgue Britannic in the presence of brutally 
provoked mutiny,' " I muttered, as I turned 
over the pages of M. de 0. 

"Well, Glass, 'e was led off kickiii' an' 
squealin', an' 'ove down the ladder into 'is 

' ■ ' Behold my captain in plain sea, 
'u. at issue with his navigator ! ' ". 

sergeant's volupshus arms. 'E run Glass 
forward, an' was all for puttin' 'im in irons 
as a maniac. 

" * You refill your water jacket and cool 
off ! ' says Glass, sittin' down rather winded. 
' The trouble with you is you 'aven't any 

" ' 'Aven't I ? I've got the remnants of a 
little poor authority though,' 'e says,Jookin' 
pretty vicious. 

"'You 'ave ?' says Glass. ' Then for pity's 
sake 'ave some proper feelin', too. I'n^ 



goin' to be shot this eveiiin'. You'll take 
charge o' the firiri'-party.' 

"Some'ovv or otber, that made the Ser- 
geant froth at the mouth. 'E 'ad no more 
play to 'is intellects than a spit-kid. 'E just 
took everything as it come. Well, that was 
about all, I think. Unless you'd care to 
'ave me resume my narrative." 

We resumed on the old terms, but with 
rather less hot water. The Marine on the 
floor breathed evenly, and Mr. Pyecroft 

" I may 'ave omitted to inform you that 
our Number One took a general row round 
the situation while the small-arm party was 
at work, an' o' course 'e supplied the outlines ; 
but the details we coloured by ourselves. 
These were our tatties to baffle ilntonio. 
It occurs to the Carpenter to 'ave the steam- 
cutter down for repairs, 'E gets 'is cheero- 
party together, an' down she comes. You've 
never seen a steam-cutter let down on the 
deck, 'ave you ? It's not usual, an' she 
takes a lot o' humourin'. Thus we 'ave the 
starboard side completely blocked an' the 
general traffic tricklin' over'ead along the 
fore-an'-aft bridge. Then Chips gets into 
'er an' begins balin' out a mess o' small 
reckonin's on the deck. Simultaneous, 
there come up three o' those dirty engine- 
room objects which we call ' tiffies,' an' a 
stoker or two with orders to repair 'er 
steamin' gadgets, lliey get into her an' 
bale out another young Ohristmas-treeful of 
small reckonin's — brass mostly. Simul- 
taneous, it hits the Pusser that 'e'd better serve 
out mess pork for the poor matlow. These 
things 'arf shifted Retallick, our Chief Cook, 
off 'is bed-plate. Yes, you might say they 
broke 'im wide open. 'E wasn't at all used 
to 'em. 

"Number One tells off five or six prime, 
able-bodied seamen-gunners to the pork- 
barrels. You never see pork fisted out of 
its receptacle, 'ave you ? Simultaneous, it 
hits the Gunner that now'sthe day an' now's 
the hour for a non-continuous class in 
Maxim instruction. So they all gave way 
together, and the general effect was no7i 
plus ultra. There was the cutter's innards 
spread out like a Fratton pawnbroker's 
shop ; there was the ' tiffies ' 'ammerin' in 
the stern of 'er, an' they aren't antiseptic ; 
there was the Maxim class in light order 
among the pork, an' forrard the blacksmith 
'ad 'is forge in full blast, makin' 'orse-shoes, 
I suppose. Well, that accounts for the star- 
board side. The on'y warrant officer 'oo 
'adn't a look in sq f^r w^s the Bosun. So 'e 

stated, all out of 'is own 'ead, that Chips's 
reserve o' wood an' timber, which Chips 'ad 
stole at our last refit, needed restowin'. It 
was on the port booms— a young an' 'ealthy 
forest of it, for Charley Peace wasn't to be 
named 'longside o' Chips for burglary. 

" ' All right,' says our Number One. 'You 
can 'ave the 'ole port watch if you like. 
'Ell's 'ell,' 'e says, *an' when there we must 
study to improve.' 

" Jarvis was our Bosun's name. 'E 'unted 
up the 'ole of the port watch by 'and, as you 
might say, callin' 'em by name loud "'an' 
lovin', which is not precisely Navy makee- 
pigeon. They 'ad that timber-loft off the 
booms an' they dragged it up an' down like 
so many sweatin' little beavers. But Jarvis 
was jealous o' Chips an' went round the star- 
board side to envy at 'im. 

" ' 'Tain't enough,' 'e says, when 'e 'ad 
climbed back. ' Chips 'as got 'is bazaar lookin' 
like a coal-hulk in a cyclone. We must adop' 
more drastic measures.' Off 'e goes to 
Number One an' communicates with 'im. 
Number One got the old man's leave, on 
account of our goin' so slow (we were keepin' 
be'ind the tramp), to fit the ship with a full set 
of patent supernumerary sails. Four trysails 
—yes, you might call 'em trysails-— was our 
Admiralty allowance in the un'eard of event 
of a cruiser breakin' down, but w^e had 
our awnin's as well. They was all extricated 
from the various flats an' 'oles where they 
was stored, an' at the end o' two hours 'ard 
work Number One 'e made out eleven sails 
o' different sorts and sizes. I don't know 
what exact nature of sail you'd call 'em — 
pyjama-stun'sles with a touch of Sarah's 
shimmy, per'aps — but the riggin' of 'em an' 
all the supplementary details, as you might 
say, bein' carried on through an' over an' 
between the cutter an' the forge an' the pork 
an' cleanin' guns, an' the Maxim class an' 
the Bosun's barricades and the paintwork, 
was wonderful. There's no other word of 
it. Wonderful ! 

" The old man keeps swimmin' up an' 
down through it all with the faithful An- 
tonio at 'is side, fetchin' 'im numerous splits. 
'E 'ad eight that mornin', an' when Antonio 
was detached to get 'is spy-glass, or 'is gloves, 
or 'is lily-white 'andkerchief, the old man 
would waste 'em down a ventilator. Antonio 
must ha' learned a lot about our Navy 

" He did." 

" Ah ! Would you kindly mind turnin' 
to the precise page indicated an' givin' me a 
resume of 'is tatties ? " said Mr. Pyecroft, 



drinking deeply. " I'd like to know ow 'it 
looked from 'is side o' the deck." 

" How will this do ? " I said. " ' Once clear 
off the land, like Voltaire's Hahakktik " 

" One o' their new commerce-destroyers, I 
suppose," Mr. Pyecroft interjected. 

" ' — each man seemed verifahly capable of 
all — to do a'xording to his ivilL The boats, 
dismantled and forlorn, were lowered upon the 
planking. One cries ' Aid me I ' flourishing 
at the same time the weapons of his business. 
A dozen launch themselves upon him in the 
orgasm of zeal misdirected^ He beats them 
off ivith the ho'vlings of dogs. He has lost 
a hammer. This ferocious outcry signHes 
that only. Eight men seek the utensil, coUiU- 
ing on the ivay ivith some miny others which, 
seated in the stern of the boat, tear up and 
scatter upon the planking the ironwork which 
impeded their bridal efforts. Elsewhere, one 
detaches from on high wood, canvas, iron bolts, 
coal-dust — tvhat do I know ? ' " 

"That's where 'e's comin' the bloomin' 
onjenew, 'E knows a lot, reely." 

" ' They descend thundering upon the plank- 
ing, and the spectacle cannot reproduce itself. 
In my capacity of valet to the captain, tvhom 
I have well and beautifully plied tvith drink 
since the rising of the sun {behold me also, 
Ganymede I) I pass throughout observing, it 
may be, not a little. They ask orders. There is 
none to give them. One sits upon the edge of the 
vessel and chants interminably the lugubrious 
'^ Route Britannia '^ — to endure how lowj?' " 

" That was me ! On'y 'twas ' A Life on 
the Ocean Wave ' — w^hich I 'ate more than 
any stinkin' tune I know, 'avin' dragged too 
many nasty little guns to it. Yes, Number 
One told me off to that for ten minutes, an' 
I ain't musical you might say." 

" * Then come marines, half -dressed, seeking 
vainly through this " tohu-bohu'''''^ (that's one 
of his names for the Archimandrite, Mr. 
Pyecroft), ^for a place whence they shall not 
be dislodged. The captain, heavy with drink, 
rolls himself from his hammock. He would 
have his people fire the Maxims, They demand 
which Maxim, That to him is equal. The 
breech-lock indispensable is not there. They 
demand it of one ivho opens a barrel of pork, 
for this Navy feeds at all hours. He refers 
them to the cook, yesterday my master ' " 

" Yes, an' Retallick nearly 'ad a fit. What a 
truthful an' observin' Httle Antonio we 'ave ! " 

" 'lit is discovered in the hands of a boy 
who says, and they do not rebuks him, that he 
has found it by hazard,' I'm afraid I haven't 
translated quite correctly, Mr. Pyecroft, but 
I've done my best." 

"Why, it's beautiful — you ought to be a 
Frenchman — you ought. You don't want 
anything o' me. You've got it all there." 

" Yes, but I like your side of it. For 
instance. Here's a little thing I can't quite 
see the end of. Listen ! * Of the domain 
ivhich Britannia rules by sufferance, my gross 
captain knew nothing, and his navigator, if 
possible, less. From the bestial recriminations 
and the indeterminate chaos of the grand deck, 
I ascended — always tvith a ivhisky-and-soda 
in my hands — to a scene truly grotesque. 
Behold my captain in plain sea, at issue with 
his navigator ! A crisis of nerves, due to the 
enormous quantity of alcohol which he had 
siv alio wed up to then, has filled for him the 
ocean tvith dangers, imaginary and fantastic. 
Incapable of judgment, menaced by the phan- 
tasms of his brain inflamed, he envisages 
islands perhaps of the Hesperides beneath his 
keel — vigias m?iumerable. He creates shoals 
sad and far-reaching of the mid- Atlantic ! ' 
What was that, now ? " 

"Oh, I see ! That come after dinner, 
when our navigator 'ove 'is cap down an' 
danced on it. Dauby was quartermaster. 
They 'ad a tea-party on the bridge. It was 
the old man's contribution. Does 'e say 
anything about the leadsmen ?" 

" Is this it ? ' Overborne by his superior's 
causeless suspicion, the navigator took off the 
badges of his rank and cast tliem at the feet of 
my captain and sobbed. A disgusting and 
maudlin reconciliation folloived. The argu- 
ment reneived itself each grasping the wheel, 
crapidous' (that means drunk, Mr. Pyecroft), 
' shouting. It appeared that my captain would 
chenaler'' (I don't know what that means, 
Mr. Pyecroft) ' to the Gape, At the end, he 
placed a sailor tvith the sound ' (that's the lead, 
I think) ' in his hand, garnished with suet,' 
Was it garnished with suet ? " 

" He put two leadsmen in the chains, o' 
course ! 'E didn't know that there mightn't 
be shoals there, 'e said. Morgan went an' 
armed 'is lead, to enter into the spirit o' the 
thing. They 'eaved it for twenty minutes, 
but there wasn't any suet — only tallow, o' 

" ' Garnished with suet at two thousand 
metres of profundity , Decidedly the Britannic 
Navy is tvell guarded,' Well, that's all 
right, Mr. Pyecroft. Would you mind tell- 
ing me anything else of interest that 
happened ? " 

" There was a good deal, one way an' 
another. I'd like to know what this Antonio 
thoujs^ht of our sails." 

" He merely says that ' the engines having 

' The Marines carried the corpse below.' 



broJcen doum, an officer extemporised a mourn- 
fid and useless parody of sails.' Oh, yes ! ho 
says tliat some of them looked hke ' bonnets 
in a needlecase, I think,'' " 

" Bonnets in a needlecase ! They were 
stun'sles. That shows the beggar's no sailor. 
That trick was really the one thing we did. 
Pho ! I thonght 'e was a sailorman, an' 'e 
'asn't sense enough to see what extemporisin' 
eleven good an' drawin' sails out o' four 
trys'les an' a few awnin's means. 'E must 
'ave been drunk ! " 

"Never mind, Mr. Pyecfoft. I want to 
liear about your target-practice, and the 

"Oh ! We 'ad a special target-practice 
thit afternoon all for Antonio. As I told 
my crew — me bein' captain of the port-bow 
quick-firer, though I'm a torpedo man now 
-^it just showed 'ow you can work your 
gun under any discomforts. A shell— twenty 
six-inch shells — burstin' inboard couldn't 
'ave begun to make the varicose collection 
o' tit-bits which we 'ad spilled on our deck. 
It was a lather — a rich, creamy lather ! 

" We took it very easy — that gun-practice. 
We done it in a complimentary ' Jenny-'ave- 
another-cup-o'-tea ' style, an' the crews was 
strictly ordered not to rupture 'emselyes with 
unnecessary exertion. This isn't our 'abit in 
the Navy when we're in puris 7iaturallbus, 
as you might say. But we wasn't so then. 
We was impromptu. An' Antonio was busy 
fetchin' splits for the old man, and the old 
man was wastin' 'em down the ventilators. 
There must 'ave been four inches in the 
bilges, I should think — wardroom whisky- 

" Then I thought I might as well bear a 
hand as look pretty. So I let my bundoop 
go at fifteen 'und red — sigh tin' very particu- 
lar. There was a sort of 'appy little belch 
like — no more, I give you my word — an' the 
shell trundled out maybe fifty feet an' 
dropped into the deep Atlantic. 

" ' Government powder, sir ! ' sings out 
our Gunnery Jack to the bridge, laughin' 
'orrid sarcastic ; an' then, of course, we all 
laughs, which we are not encouraged to do 
in purls naturalibus. Then o' course I 
saw what our Gunnery Jack 'ad been after 
with 'is subcutaneous details in the magazines 
all the morn in' watch. He 'ad redooced the 
charges to a minimum, as you might say. 
But it made me feel a trifle faint an' sickisli, 
notwithstandin' this spit-in-the-eye business. 
Every time such transpired, our Gunnery 
Lootenant would saysomethin' sarcastic about 
Government stores, an' the old man fair 

'owled. 'Op was on the bridge with ^im, an' 
'e told me — cause 'e's a physiologist an' reads 
characters — that Antonio's face was sweatin' 
with pure joy. 'Op wanted to kick 'im. 
Does Antonio say anything about that ? " 

" Not about the kicking, but he is great 
on the gun-practice, Mr. Pyecroft. He has 
put all the results into a sort of appendix — 
a table of shots. He says that the figures 
will speak more eloquently than words." 

" What ? Nothin' about the way the 
crews flinched an' 'opped ? Nothin' about 
the little shells rumblin' out o' the guns so 
casual ? " 

" There are a few pages of notes, but they 
only bear out what you say. He says that 
these things always happen as soon as one of 
our ships is out of sight of land. Oh, yes ! 
I've forgotten. He says : ' From the con- 
versation of my captain with his inferiors I 
gathered that no small proportion of the 
expense of these nominally efficient cartridges 
finds itself in his pockets. So much, indeed, 
was signified by an officer on the deck below, 
ivho criei in a high voice : "/ hope, sir, yon 
are making something out of it. It is rather 
monotonous,^' This insult, so flagrant, albeit 
ivell-merited, urns received tvith a smile of 
drunken bonhommy' — that's cheerfulness, 
Mr. Pyecroft. Your glass is empty." 

"Eesumin' afresh," said Mr. Pyecroft, 
after an interval, " I may as well say that 
the target-practice occupied the two hours, 
and then we 'ad to dig out after the tramp. 
Then we 'arf an' three-quarters cleaned up 
the decks an' mucked about as requisite, 
haulin' down the patent awnin' stun'sles 
which Number One 'ad made. The old man 
was a shade doubtful of 'is course, 'cause I 
'card 'im say to Number One : ' You were 
right. A week o' this would turn the ship 
into a blighted beanfeast. But,' 'e says 
pathetic, ' aven't they backed the band 
noble ? ' 

" ' Oh ! it's a picnic for them,' says Number 
One. ' But when do we get rid o' this 
whisky-peddlin' blighter o' yours, si]* ? ' 

" ' That's a cheerful way to speak of a 
viscount,' says the old man. ' 'E's the bluest 
blood o' France when 'e's at 'ome.' 

" ' Which is the precise landfall I wish 'im 
to make,' says Number One. ' It'll take all 
'ands and the Captain of the Head to clean 
up after 'im.' 

" * They won't grudge it,' says the old 
man. *Just as soon as it's dusk, we'll 
overhaul our tramp friend an' waft 'im 

" Then a suo— midshipman — Moorshed 



was 'is name — come up an' says somethin' 
in a low voice. It fetches the old man. 

" ' You'll oblige me,' 'e says, ' by takin' 
the wardroom poultry for that, I've ear- 
marked every fowl we've shipped at Madeira, 
so there can't be any possible mistake. 
M'rover,' 'e says, ' tell 'em if they spill one 
drop of blood on the blighted deck,' 'e says, 
' they'll not be extenuated, but hung.' 

" Mr. Moorshed goes forward, lookin' un- 
usual 'appy, even for 'im. The Marines was 
enjoyin' a committee-meetin' in their own 

" After that it fell dark, with just a little 
streaky, oily light on the sea — an' any thin' 
more chronic than the Arcliimandriie I'd 

'abit o' permittin' leathernecks to assassinate 
lootenants every morning at drill without im- 
mejitly 'avin' 'em shot on the foc'sle in the 
'orrid crawly-crawly twilight ? ' " 

'' ' Yes,' I murmured over my dear book, 
' the infinitely lugtihrious crepuscule. A spec- 
tacle of harbarity unparalleled — hideous — 
cold-blooded, and yet touched with appalUny 
grandeur.'' " 

" ' Ho ! Was that the way Antonio 
looked at it ? That shows 'e 'ad feelin's. 
To resoom. Without anyone givin' us 
orders to that effect, we began to creep 
about an' whisper. Things got stiller an' 
stiller, till they was as still as— mushrooms ! 
Then the buder let off the Dead March 

An' we lay by till she lowered a boat." 

trouble you to be'old. She looked like a 
fancy bazaar and a auction-room — yes, she 
looked like a passenger steamer. We'd 
picked up our tramp, an' was about four 
mile be'ind 'er. I noticed the wardroom 
as a class, you might say, was manoeuvrin' 
en masse, an' then come the order to cock- 
bill the yards. We 'ad n't any yards except 
a couple o' signalHn' sticks, but we cock- 
billed 'em. I 'adn't seen that sight, not 
since thirteen years in the West Indies, 
when a post-captain died o' yellow jack. It 
. means a sign o' mournin', the yards beiti' 
canted opposite way, to look drunk an' dis- 
orderly. They do. 

"'An' what might our last giddy-go- 
round signify ? ' I asks of 'Op. 

" ' Good 'Evins I ' 'e says, ' are you in the 

from the upper bridge. 'E done it to cover 
the remarks of a cock-bird bein' killed forrard, 
but it come out paralysin' in its totitensemlle. 
You never 'eard the Dead March on a l)ugle ? 
Then tlie pipes went twitterin' for both 
watches to attend public execution, an' we 
came up like so many ghosts, the 'ole ship's 
company. Why, Mucky 'Arcourt, one o' 
our boys, was that took in, e' give tongue 
like a beagle-pup, an' was properly kicked 
down the ladder for so doin'. Well, there 
we lay — engines stopped, roUin' to the 
swell, all dark, yards cock-billed, an' that 
blighted tune yowlin' from the upper bridge. 
We fell in on the foc'sle — all pressed up 
against the conn in'- tower an' thereabouts, 
leaviii' a large open space by the capstan, 
where our sailmaker was sittin'se\^in' broken 



firebars into the foot of an old 'ammick. 
'E looked like a corpse, an' Mucky 'ad 
another tit o' hysterics, an' you could 'ear 
us breathin' 'ard. It beat any thin' in the 
tlieatrical line that even us Arch'mandrites 
'ad done — an' we was the ship you could trusfc. 
Then come the doctor an' lit a red lamp 
which 'e used for 'is photographic muckin's, 
an' chocked it on the capstan. That was 
finally gashly. 

''Then come twelve Marines guardin' Glass 
'ere. You wouldn't think to see 'ini what a 
gratooitous an' aboundin' terror 'e was that 
evenin'. 'E was in a white shirt 'e'd stole 
from Oockburn, an' 'is regulation trousers, 
bare-footed. 'E'd pipe-clayed 'is 'ands an' 
face an' feet an' as much of 'is chest as the 
openin of 'is shirfc showed. 'E marched 
under escort with a firm an' undeviatin' step 
to the capstan, an' came to attention. The 
old man, reinforced by an extra strong split 
— 'is seventeenth, an' 'e didn't throw that 
down the ventilator — come up on the bridge 
an' stood like a image. 'Op, 'oo was with 
'im, says that 'e 'card Antonio's teeth singin' 
— not chatterin' — singin' like funnel-stays in 
a typhoon. Yes, a moanin' geolian 'arp, 'Op 

'* ' When you are ready, sir, drop your 
'andkerchief,' Number One whispers. 

" ' Good Lord ! ' said the old man, with a 
jump. 'Eh! what? What a sight ! What 
a sight I ' an' 'e stood drinkin' it in, I sup- 
pose, for quite two minutes. 

"Glass never says a word. 'E shoved aside 
an 'andkerchief which the sub-loo tenant 
proffered 'im to bind 'is eyes with — quiet an' 
collected ; an' if we 'adn't been feelin' so very 
much as we did feel, 'is gestures would 'ave 
brought down the 'ouse." 

" T can't open my eyes, or 1*11 be sick," 
said the Marine, with appalling clearness. 
" I'm pretty far gone— I know it — but there 
wasn't anyone could 'ave beaten Edwardo 
Glass, E..M.L.L, that time. Why, I scared 
myself nearly into the 'orrors. Go on, Pye ; 
Glass is listenin'." 

" Then the old man drops 'is 'andkerchief, 
an' the firin'-party fires like one man. Glass 
drops forward, twitchin' an' 'eavin', 'orrid 
natural, into the shotted 'ammick all spread 
out before 'im, and the firin'-party closes in 
to guard the remains of the deceased while 
Sails is stitchin' it up. An' when they lifted 
that 'ammick it was one wringin' mess o' 
blood. They on'y expended one wardroom 
cock-bird, too. Did you know poultry bled 
that extravagant ? / never did. " 

"The old man — so 'Op told me — stayed 

on the bridge, brought up on a dead centre. 
Number One was similarly but lesser im- 
pressed, but o' course 'is duty was to think 
of 'is fine white decks an' the blood. 'Arf a 
mo', sir,' 'e says, when the old man was for 
leavin'. ' We 'ave to wait for the burial, 
which I am informed takes place imm)jit.' 

" ' It's beyond me,' says the owner. ' There 
was general instructions for an execution, but 
I never knew I had such a dependable push 
of mountebanks aboard,' 'e says. ' I'm all 
cold up my back, still.' 

" The Marines carried the corpse below. 
Then the bugle give us some more Dead 
March. Then we 'card a splash from a 
bow six-pounder port, an' the bugle struck 
up a cheerful tune. The 'ole lower deck 
was complimentin' Glass, 'oo took it very 
meek. 'E is a good actor, for all 'e's a 

" 'Now,' said the old man, ' we mu^t turn 
over Antonio. 'E's in what I've 'eard called 
one perspirin' funk.' 

" Of course, I'm tellin' it slow, but it all 
'appened much quicker. We run down to 
our trampo — without o' course informin' 
ilntonio of 'is 'appy destiny — an' inquired of 
'er if she 'ad any use for a free gratis 
stowaway. Oh, yes 1 she said she'd be 'ighly 
grateful, but she seemed a shade puzzled at 
our generosity, as you might put it, an' we 
lay by till she lowered a boat. Then 
Antonio — 'oo was un'appy — distinctly un- 
'appy — was politely requested to navigate 
elsewhere, which I don't think 'e looked for. 
'Op was deputed to convey the information, 
an' 'Op got in one sixteen-inch kick which 
'oisted 'im all up the ladder. 'Op ain't really 
vindictive, an' 'e's fond of the French, 
especially the women, but 'is chances o' 
kicking loo tenants w^as same as mine- 

" The boat 'adn't more than shoved off 
before a change, as you might say, came o'er 
the spirit of our dream. The old man says, 
like Elphinstone an' Bruce in the Ports- 
mouth election when I was a boy : ' Gentle- 
men,' 'e says, 'for gentlemen you have shown 
yourselves to be — from the bottom of my 
'eart I thank you. The status an' position 
of our late lamented shipmate made it obli- 
gat' 'e says, ' to take certain steps not quite 
included in the regulations. An' nobly,' 
says 'e, ' 'ave you assisted me. Now,' 'e says, 
' you 'old the false and felonious reputation 
of bein' the smartest ship in the Service. 
Pigsties,' 'e says, ' is plane trigonometry 
alongside our present disgustin' state. Efface 
the effects of this indecent orgy,' 'e says. 



'Jump, you lop-eared, flat-footed, butter- 
backed- Amalekites ! Dig out, you brinj- 
eyed beggars ? ' " 

" Do captains talk like that, Mr. Pye- 
croft ? " I asked. 

** I've told you once I oii'y give the grist 
o' 'is arguments. The bosun's mate trans- 
lates it to the lower deck, as you may put it, 
and the lower deck springs smartly to 
attention. It took us 'arf the night 'fore we 
got 'er anyway shipshape ; but by sunrise 
she was beautiful as ever, an' we resumed. 
I've thought it over a lot since ; yes, an' I've 
thought a lot of Antonio trimmin' coal in 
that tramp's bunkers. 'E must 'ave been 
'ighly surprised. Wasn't 'e ? " 

" He was, Mr. Pyecroft," I responded. 
" But now we're talkin' of it, weren't you all 
a little surprised ? " 

" It come as a pleasant relief to the 
regular routine," said Mr. Pyecroft. " We 
appreciated it as an easy way o' workin' for 
your country. But — the old man was right 
— a week o' similar manoeuvres would 'ave 
knocked our moral double-bottoms clean out. 
Now, couldn't you oblige with Antonio's 
account of Glass's execution ? " 

I obliged for nearly ten minutes. It was 
at best a feeble rendering of M. de C.'s 
magnificent prose, through which the soul 
of the poet, the eye of the mariner, and the 
heart of the patriot bore magnificent accord. 
His account of his descent from the side of 
the " infamous vessel consecrated to blood " 
in the " vast and gathering dusk of the 
tremhling ocean " could only be matched by 
his description of the dishonoured hannnock 
sinking unnoticed through the depths, while 
above the bugler played music " of an in- 
definable hrutality ^ 

" By the way, what did the bugler play 
after Glass's funeral ? " I asked. 

" 'Im ? Oh ! 'e played ' The Strict Q.T.' 
It's a very old song. We 'ad it in Frattou 

nearly fifteen years back," said Mr. Pyecroft 

I stirred the sugar dregs in my glasp. 
Suddenly entered armed men, wet and dis- 
courteous, Tom Wessels smiling nervously in 
the background. 

" Where is that — minutely particularised 
person — Glass ? " said the sergeant of the 

" 'Ere ! " The Marine rose to the strictest 
of attentions. " An' it's no good smellin' of 
my breath, because I'm strictly an' ruinously 

" Oh ! An' what may you have been doin' 
with yourself ? " 

" Listenin' to tracts. You can look ! 
I've 'ad the evenin' of my little life. Lead 
on to the Cornucopia's midmost dunjing 
cell. There's a crowd of brass-'atted 
blighters there which will say I've been 
absent without leaf. Never mind. I forgive 
'em before'and. The evenin' of my life, an' 
please don't forget it." Then in a tone of 
most ingratiating apology to me : "I soaked 
it all in be'ind my shut eyes. 'Im " — 
he jerked a contemptuous thumb tow^ards 
Mr. Pyecroft — " 'e's a flat-foot, a indigo-blue 
matlow. 'E never saw the fun from first to 
last. A mournful beggar — most depressin'." 
Private Glass departed, leaning heavily on 
the escort's arm. 

Mr. Pyecroft wrinkled his brows in thought 
— the profound and far-reaching meditation 
that follows five glasses of hot whisky-and- 

" Well, I don't see anything comical 
• — much — except 'ere an' there. Specially 
about those redooced charges in the guns. 
Do you see anything funny in it ? " 

There was that in his eye which warned 
me the night was too wet for argument. 

"No, Mr. Pyecroft, I don't," I replied. 
" It wa.s a beautiful tale, and I thank you 
verv much." 


Written and Illustrated by 


There's a Divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them how we will. 

HEN we consider 
what some greit 
men might have 
been, we shudder 
to- think what 
would have been 
lost had they suc- 
ceeded in their 
early avocation. 
Civil law would not 
have appreciated 
Handel as highly 
as lovers of music 
do and always 
will. Rousseau, 
who wrote " Con- 
fessions" and 
"Emile," would 
surely have been 
lost to the world 
as a cobbler. 
Hume's " History 
of Commerce," 
written in the 
ledgers of an office, would not have been 
equal to his " History of England." Sraeaton, 
the great engineer, might never, as an 
attorney, have risen to the bench. And 
although our great landscape painter. 
Turner, might have eventually become the 
champion barber, his talents would certainly 
have been thrown away shaving the stubbly 
chins of drunken sailors down the Thames. 
It is a strange reflection that this great 
painter, the first great leader of English 
water-colour, the painter of " Adonis Depart- 
ing for the Chase," " Ulysses Deriding 
Polyphemus," " The Rigi at Sunrise," " The 
Fighting Temeraire," and other masterpieces, 
in oil, of which the nation is justly proud, 
should have remained, in his tastes, un- 
influenced by his art, humbler perhaps than 
those very sailors in the slums of the East 

What England would have lost had young 
Disraeli remained a solicitor ! The youthful 
occupant of the dingy oflice in Frederick's 
Place, Old Jewry, in 1821, who was bound 
as clerk to William Stephens, attorney-at-law, 


may possibly have realised this catastrophe. 
The words " A day will come ! " may have 
escaped his lips as he carved " B. D." on the 
deal slope at which he worked, and day- 
dreamt of his life to come, full of prosperity, 
brilhancy, and colour. His early love for 
effect and dress, the hereditary love of 
colour and show, must have been sorely tried 
in the miserable City ofiice. It is strange 
that the office door he so frequently entered 
in those early days strongly resembles the 
entrance to the official door he so frequently 
entered in the later years — No. 10, Downing 
Street. What a life was lived between the 
time he left the one door and entered the 
other ! Yet when he left the sohcitor's 
office, it was to become a fashionable novelist. 
Clever as his books are, no one will dispute 
the fact that the name of Beaconsfield 
would not have survived his own day had 
his reputation depended solely upon his pen. 

He published " Contarini Fleming " 
anonymously, " in order to test the apprecia- 
tive faculty of the public," having written it 
with deep thought and feeling. This falling 
flat, he said : " I was naturally discouraged 
from further effort," and he resolved to aban- 
don literature and betake himself to politics. 

Had the father of John Keats not been 
killed by a fall from his horse, when his son 
was nine years old, it is just possible Keats 
would have followed his grandfather's and 
father's occupation and kept livery-stables, 
letting out worn-out hacks at three-and- 
sixpence an hour, to Cockney sportsmen, in 
place of unharnessing his poet's imagination. 

So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet blaek, 
Each Avith large dark blue wings upon his back. 

It was to his mother he ow^ed the advan- 
tage of a good education. He gave no 
evidence of any taste for poetising, and was 
apprenticed to a surgeon at Edmonton for 
five years. After that had expired he walked 
the London hospitals. " The operations he 
performed w^ere, in fact, successful ; but an 
overwrought apprehension of doing mischief 
in this way haunted him continually, so he 
laid down the knife and took up the pen." 
To that fact we owe some of the most 
charming poetry in the English language — 



'' Eudyinioii;' " The Eve of St. Agnes," the 
unfinished " Hyperion." This delicate 
genius died at the age of twenty-six, with 
a request that over his bones should be 
inscribed — 


And, as W. M. Eossetti has written : " That 

is an age-long 
and shoreless 
water, which 
will continue 
flowing while 
after genera- 
tion of men, as 
brothers and 
lovers, come 
to contemplate 
the sacred tomb 
in Rome, with- 
in the shadow 
of the pyramid 
of Cains Cestus. 
They have to 
step aside a few 
paces and stand 
by a still more 
sacred tomb, 
which opened 
in the ensuing 
year, 1822 — 
that of the 
wave- won I and 
world - w^orii 
Shelley, the 
divinest of the 

I wonder 
would such 
lines have been 
written over 
the tomb of 
Surgeon Keats, 
of H a r 1 e y 

If a ma n 
ever lived with 
all the best and 
the worst 
characteristics of a genius combined, (Gold- 
smith was that man. He was born in 
poverty, the son of a very improvident 
country parson, "passing rich on forty 
pounds a year." It was characteristic of 
the whole 'family that the less they had to 
spend, tlie more prodigally they spent it. 
Goldsmith was, at the early age of six, " re- 


raarkable chiefly for idleness and smallpox." 
A good, kind, generous uncle eventually sent 
him to college. He was there remarkable 
chiefly for extravagance and pawning. The 
good uncle then paid for his preparation to 
enter the Church ; he sent him to a coach 
at Lissoy, where he was remarkable for 
miscellaneous reading and drinking at the 
" Three Jolly Pigeons." Fifty pounds was 
found for him to start as a lawyer in 
London. This venture was chiefly remark- 
able for his gambling that money away in 
Dublin, and his disgrace in consequence. He 
went to Edinburgh, to become a physician ; 
from thence to Leyden. His connection 
with medicine is remarkable chiefly for his 
borrowing propensities, and for a sentimental 
journey started upon with one shirt, one 
guinea, and one flute. He then became a 
school-teacher, chiefly remarkable for failure 
and poverty. 

Then, and not till then, his biographers 
inform us, " commenced his hard struggles 
Avith the world." 

We all know^ the subsequent history of 
*' Poor Goldsmith " — of his appeal to Dr. 
Johnson when he was arrested by his land- 
lady for rent ; of the sale, at that moment, 
of his novel, " The Vicar of Wakefield," to 
Newberry, for sixty pounds ; of the success 
of his poem, " The Traveller," and the other 
delightful works which have made his name 




It is clear Goldsmith would never have 
succeeded in any other walk of life. He was 
a downright stupid man, wayward, a spend- 
thrift, and, save in his writino^s, apparently 
without humour — a typical Irishman in all 
but the last-named failing. "He was a 
fool," said a man who knew him. " The 
right word never came to him. If you gave 
him back a bad shilling, he would say : ' Why, 
it's as good a shilling as ever was horn.'' You 
know he ought to have said coined. Coined, sir, 
never entered his head. He was a fool, sir," 

Had he been less ^of a genius, he might 


have applied himself to one of the various 
professions his forgiving and generous uncle, 
the Eev. Thomas Contarine, started him in. 
An absent-minded parson would have been a 
calamity. As a lawyer, he would have been 
the butt of the Bench and the Bar. As a 
schoolmaster, he might certainly have enjoyed 
tlie games and fun of the holiday-time— a 
qualification for modern masters, but hardly 
considered one in his day. His childish 
nature would not have suited a Don. 

By sports like these are all their cares beguiled ; 
The sports of children satisfy the child. 

Goldsmith was the child of impulse to the 

very last. One cannot picture him as the 
Vicar of Wakefield, or of any other place. 
Had he followed his father's calling, should 
we ever have had " She Stoops to Conquer," 
or "The Deserted Yillage," to hand down 
for the delight of generations to come ? 

Another man of letters who tried several 
professions was James Eussell Lowell, poet, 
essayist, and diplomatist. He first thought 
of being a clergyman, then a lawyer, and 
afterwards a doctor. A propos of the first 
calling, he wrote : *' No man ought to be a 
minister who has not a special calling that 
way. I don't mean an old-fashioned special 
calling, with winged angels and fat-bottomed 
cherubs, bat an inward one. In fact, I 
think that no man ought to be a minister 
who has not money enough to support him 
besides his salary. For the minister of God 
should not be thinking of his own 
and children's bread when dis- 
pensing the bread of life. I have 
been led to reflect seriously on the 
subject since I have thought of 
going into the Divinity School. 
Some men were made for peace- 
makers and others for shoemakers, 
and if each man follow his nose we 
shall all come out right at last. If 
I did not think that I should some 
day make a great fool of myself 
and marry (not that I would call 
all men fools who marry), I would 
enter the school to-morrow. Certain 
am I that it is not pleasant to work 
for a living any way ; but ' we 
youth ' must live, and verily this 
' money ' is a very good thing, 
though on that account we need 
not fall down and worship it. The 
very cent on which my eye now 
rests may have done a great deal 
of good in its day ; perhaps it has 
made glad the heart of the widow, 
and put a morsel of bread in the 
famishing mouths of her children, and 
perhaps it has created much misery ; perhaps 
some now determined gambler began his 
career of sin by playing chuck-farthing with 
that very piece of stamped copper." 

So he turned his thoughts to the world of 
law. This he soon renounced as follows : — 
" A very great change has come o'er the 
spirit of my dream of life. I have renounced 
the law. I am going to settle down into a 
business-man at last, after all I have said to 
the contrary. Farewell, a long farewell to 
all my greatness. I find that I cannot bring 
myself to like the law, and I am now looking 



out for a place ' in a store.' You may 
imagine that all this has not come to pass 
without a great struggle. I must expect to 
give up almost all literary pursuits, and 
instead of making rhymes devote myself to 
making money. If I thought it possible that 
I ever could love the law (one can't make 
a lawyer wdthout it), I wouldn't hesitate a 
moment ; but I am confident that I shall 
never be able even to be on speaking terms 
with it. I have been thinking seriously of 
the ministry, but then I have also thought 
of medicine, but then — still worse ! " 

James Kussell Lowell was born on George 
Washington's birthday, 1819. The James 
represents his English descent, the Lowells 
having left Bristol for Massachusetts nearly 
two hundred years before his birth. The 
Eussell represents his Scotch blood, his 
mother being of Scotch descent. The fact 
that his father was a cultured clergyman 
may account for his leaning towards the 
Church ; and law may have entered his head 
as his grandfather was a judge. It is difficult 
to say why he thought of medicine — certainly 
the likino^ was not hereditary. As a matter 
of fact, he eventually, like all clever men, 
developed what was born in him, the natural 
talent of his mother. She was an exceptional 


woman, a linguist endowed with a wonderful 
memory, and devoted to ballads and ancient 

David Garrick was born at Hereford — 
where the cider comes from — in the year 1717. 
His father was an Army man. Garrick, in 
March, 1736, w^as entered a member of the 

Society of Lin- 
coln's Inn, being 
intended for the 
Bar. His earliest 
biographer states 
that he (Garrick) 
found the law too 
heavy, saturnine, 
and barren of 
amusements (how 
times have not 
changed!) for his 
active and more 
lively disposition. 
A genius like his 
— so like the 
magnetic needle, 
pointed directly 
to its proper 
centre — could 
not continue cii- 
cnmscribed with- 
in the limits of 
any profession 
but that to 
which it was 
v\ more particu- 
larly adapted, 
for in the year 
1740 he quitted 
the law entirely 
for the stage. 
From Garrick the Great to Smith the 
Small {nam de thmtre — anything you like), 
few members of the profession have been 
born to it or educated for that calling. A 
great number in latter years have drifted on 
to the stage after trying other walks in life. 
This is particularly the case with actresses. 
In the old days of stock companies, matters 
were different — training was severe, pay bad, 
and the social status deplorable. Nowadays, 
the petted, spoilt children of Society are on 
the stage. It is all very \vell for its leaders 
to read papers at learned societies, make 
speeches at dinners and at bazaars about the 
necessary training required, when those same 
actor-managers will engage a lady they have 
never seen or heard if they see, by her photo- 
graph, that she has a pretty face. I know% 
as a matter of fact, a lady was offered an 




engagement in a London West End theatre 
by an actor-manager who had merely seen 
her photograph. 

Mr. Beerbohm Tree was originally in the 
office of his father — a grain merchant in the 
City. J. L. Toole started life in a wine 
merchant's City office. The two great 
French actors, Coquelin (known as Coquelin 
Aine and Coquelin Cadet), were not originally 
actors. Benoit was a baker at Boulogne, 
and Ernest vvas in the service of the Northern 
Railway Company. 

xlnyone who saw Mr. Hall Caine's play, 
'• The Eternal City," must have been struck 


by the fine performance of Mr. Lionel 
Brough. Always a sound, clever comedian, 
as the Italian revolutionist in that melo- 
drama, he was the one strong and natural 
character, owing solely to his perfect know- 
ledge of the stage and how to fill it. Since 
1864, he has been one of our very best actors, 
yet this youngest of the famous " Brothers 
Brough " was originally in the newspaper 
world. He published the first number of 
the Daily Telegraph, having served his 
apprenticeship as office-boy at the office of 
the lUustrated London Neivs. While con- 
nected with the Moniing Star, he, as an 
amateur, acted with other members of the 
Savage Club, and became, through that 
accident, at once a professional theatrical star. 

The Bar would indeed be the cleverest 
body of men in the country if all the 
young men who had been called remained, 
instead of deserting law for literature. At a 
guess I should say seventy per cent, of our 
clever writers were, or are, barristers, from 
the present Poet Laureate of England, Alfred 
Austin, to the writer of mottoes for Christmas 

Humorists have, in many cases, begun life 
in serious occupations. Mark Twain (Samuel 
Langhorne Clemens), " the greatest humorist 
of the age," author of " The Jumping Frog," 
" The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn," 
" A Tramp Abroad," wit, raeonfeitr, speech- 
maker, famous all the world over, had he 
remained at one of his early vocations, would 
have been a pilot on the Mississippi River. 

It is curious to note the number of geniuses, 
of those already mentioned, who were origin- 
ally medical students. Oliver Wendell 
Holmes is perhaps an exception. He did 
not abandon the medical w^orld when he 
entered that of literature. 

I must add Yictorien Sardou, the author 
of " Fedora," " Theodora," etc., to those who 
" chucked " the medical. Saved from starva- 
tion and death by the kindness of a lady 
whom he afterwards married, he made his 
first success at thirty-five. 

Sir Conan Doyle is another instance. Had 
he continued in the medical profession, he 
might have been now a serious rival to Sir 
Andrew Critchett, for it was as an eye 
specialist that he came to London after some 
years' general practice at Southsea. 

Thomas Henry Hall Caine began life as an 
architect. Just fancy the author of "The 
Eternal City " superintending the building 
of wash-houses and working-men's dwellings ! 
Should we ever have read " The Deemster," 
" The Manxman," or " The Christian " ? 
Should we ever have seen Mr. Hall Caine in 
photographs, or upon the stage or platform, 
had he followed his first profession ? He 
has, it must be admitted, succeeded in being 
exceptionally successful as the architect of 
his own fortune. 

That delightful novelist, Thomas Hardy, 
was also destined for the architectural pro- 
fession. For him to have spent his days 
in building a police - station " Under the 
Greenwood Tree" "Far From the Madding 
Ci'owd," or a group of noble houses in place 
of writing "A Group of Noble Dames," 
A\^essex cottages in place of " Wessex Tales," 
a village inn in place of writing " The 
Three Wayfarers," would have been a loss 
to tlie world indeed. His first attempt at 



literary work was an essay on *' Coloured 
Brick and Terra-Cotta Architecture," which 
received a gold medal. I am glad the 
reward did not turn his head finally to 

It is a strange fact that so few of my own 
profession — if one may be permitted to call 
caricaturing a profession — have started life 
as caricaturists. John Leech and George du 
Maurier were both in the medical profession. 
Sir John Tenniel was a serious painter ; one 
of his frescoes decorates the walls of the 
Houses of Parliament. Charles Keene was 
at first intended for the law, and afterwards 
worked in an architect's office. John Gordon 
Thompson, who first drew for Punchy and 
subsequently was cartoonist for Fun, was in 
the Civil Service. Mr. Linley Sambourne 
started as an engineer's draughtsman in the 
office of Messrs. Penn and Sons, of Greenwich. 
W. Ralston began life as a photographer in 
Glasgow. His clever work in the Graphic 
and Punch is well known and appreciated, 


engineer's DRAUGHTSMAN. 


yet he proved himself the inevitable 
exception to the rule and returned to 
photography in Glasgow. Mr. J. Bernard 
Partridge was first an architect, and 
afterwards became an actor, as he is still. 
Mr. Phil May was also an architect before 
becoming a caricaturist. Mr. F. C. Gould 
was not originally, he himself modestly de- 
clares, intended for an artist, but luckily his 
bright imagination and extraordinary clever- 
ness and humour forced him from the dull 
Stock Exchange to brighten our lives by 
his clever caricatures. In fact, those who 
limit their work to caricature pure and simple 
are often happier in their efforts if untrained 
for correct draughtsmanship. Leech is an 
instance, and many others could be men- 
tioned ; but at the same time, caricaturists 
are frequently able artists, and their branch 
of art is one which, unless the artist is 
extremely limited in his efforts, requires 
quite as hard study as painting itself. At 
tiie same time, aptitude for it must be born 
in one — you cannot train an artist to be a 
caricaturist, nor is it possible to train a 
caricaturist to be a serious artist. The 
(|uotation with which I started this brief 
article is perhaps more applicable to carica- 
turists than any other : — 

There's a Divinity that shapes our ends, 
Koiigh-hew them 'how we will. 


Fhom the Picture by A. G. Brown. 

Copyright strictly reserved. 


By max ADELER.^ 

WHAT was that matter, Captain 
Bass, about Mary Jones ? ' 

We were sitting in Captain Bass's 
cat-boat Lorena, while the tide drifted us 
southward in Panasquan Inlet. 

My plan had been to go blue-fishing, and 
so on Tuesday morning I went down upon 
the accommodation-train on the New Jersey 
Midland railroad, and got off at Hurryup 
Junction. There, as everybody knows, a 
dusty stage with two horses takes travellers 
twice a day to Bivalve Centre, the queer 
little village which straddles Hitalick Creek 
just above the point where it empties into 
the Inlet. 

I had not known Captain Bass, but my 
friend Whitaker, who keeps his own cat-boat 
at Bivalve Centre, and knows every good 
fishing-hole on the New Jersey coast, told 
me that if I really wanted to catch blue-fish, 
Bass was the man to command the expedition. 

The stage-driver pointed out the Captain's 
cottage as he helped me down the steps at 
the rear of the stage and pocketed the fare, 
and he smiled in an odd way as he showed 
me the building. 

As I came near, I saw a man working in 
the garden behind the house. He heard my 
footsteps, and turning his head, he dropped 
his spade and hurried to the back door, 
which he opened and slammed violently 
when he had gone in. 

If I had not seen him run towards the 
building and heard him enter, I should have 
gone away after knocking at the front door 
five or six times ; but my curiosity was 
stimulated by such queer behaviour, so I 
continued knocking. 

After a while I heard him coming to the 
door. He put his hand upon the knob, 
drew a creaking bolt, turned a key, and the 
door opened for about one and a half inches. 

" What d'you want ? " said the voice of 
Captain Bass, of whose bearded face what 
might be called only a slice was seen. 

I explained to him that I had it upon my 
mind to try to catch blue-fish, on the next 

* Copyright, 1903, by Charles Ileber Clark, in the 
United States of America. 


tide, and that Whitaker had urged me to 
come to him for help. 

"Is your name Jones?" he asked, still 
holding the door so that I could see but a 
corner of his left eye. 

I told him my name. 

*' No relation to any Mary Jones ? " 

" No." 

"Not lookin' fur trouble or nothin'." 

" No." 

Captain Bass moved his head over, so that 
he could examine me with his right eye ; and 
then he added another inch to the crack in 
the doorway. 

" Fair an' square now, between man and 
man, an' you cross your breath to it— you're 
not a-playin' that Mary Jones business on 
me ? Honest, now ? " 

When I had convinced him that I was 
completely innocent of connivance with, or 
knowledge of, or interest in Mary Jones, 
Captain Bass swung the door wide open and 
asked me to step in. 

Twenty minutes afterwards we were down 
at the little wooden pier in the creek, and 
while I leaped into the Lorena, Captain Bass 
loosened her painter and swung her head 

The Captain was afraid we should not 
have wind enough, but we sailed bravely 
down the creek, and I suppose had gone 
about two miles up the bay, or inlet, when 
the wind dropped down and the tide slowly 
drifted us back again towards the Hitalick. 

" What was that matter about Mary Jones, 
Captain," I asked him, " that worried you so 
much when I knocked on your door just 
now ? " 

The sail was flapping and wabbling in a 
vain way between the boom and the mast, 
and while Captain Bass held the tiller and 
smoked his pipe, I propped my back against 
the side of the cockpit and' put my feet 
upon tlie casing of the centre-board. 

Captain Bass hesitated and swallowed a 
couple of times, so that I could see the lump 
travel down along the line of his Adam's 
apple. Then he looked at the peak of the 
mast, cast an eye seaward, passed his hand 
over his forehead, ported his helm slightly, 



expectorated, and said : " An' jon never heard 
notliin' about it ? " 

'' Never." 

" Mr. Whitaker didn't tell jou ? " 

" No." 

" Hah ! I thought all the folks up in 
Philadelphia knowed about that thing. You 
mustVe been West, I reckon." 

" I should be glad to hear about it now," 
I said. In fact, at that moment I cared 
more about the Mary Jones case than I did 
about blue-fish. 

"It was this yer way," said Captain Bass, 
laying down his pipe, letting out one hole in 
his single suspender,* and seating himself on 
the gunwale, where he could manage the 
tiller with his knee. " Jes' four weeks ago 
my wife was called away, of a sudden, you 
might say ; and when she was clean gone and 
we come back from the funeral, I was kind o' 
lonesome ; so, a-settin' in the upstairs room, 
I begun a-rummagin', you might say, among 
her things in the bureau drawer. The fus' 
thing you know I come acrost a paper all 
folded up and writ on it the words, * My 

"Why, man alive, I never suspicioned 
that Matty had made a will, fur she had no 
prop'ty that I knowed of ; so I opened the 
will, and — what do you think ? — it read 
somethin' like this : — 

"'I hereby give and bequeath my imitation 
tortoiseshell comb to Ann Martin, my German 
silver coffee-pot to Jane B. Pennington, 
and my husband Joseph Bass to Mary Jones.' 

" There it was, signed and sealed and writ 
fair, and witnesses and everything just right. 
Me and the coffee-pot and the comb all 
handed around as gifs to her friends. 

" What she went an' lef ' me to that woman 
fur, I dunno, fur she always hated Mary 
Jones wiiss'n pizin —that is, if it ivm Mary 
Jones she meant that lives over the creek 
there in Bivalve. 

"So I set there till well on towards 
mornin' a-thinkin' about it— just a- thinkin' 
and a-thinkin' — when, all of a sudden, like, 
it come to me that Mary Jones might mean 
one woman and it might mean another. 
Why, my gracious, man ! there's maybe 
about a million Mary Joneses in this nation, 
black, white, and yaller ; and so the question 
become interestin' right away — which Mary 
Jones was to inherit me ? You understand, 
the tiling was kind o' open. 

"I never knowed nothin' about no law, 
fis you kin guess, so in the mornin' I put 
Matty's will in my pocket and walked over 
to Squire Tyson's. He's no reg'lar lawyer, 

but he's the Squire, and follers the law some, 
and so I showed him the will and asked him 
what he thought about it. 

" When he come to the name o' Mary 
Jones, I seen him flinch, but he said nothin' ; 
and so I says : ' That's the widder Jones 
Matty's give me to, I s'pose; and what I ask 
you is : Am I obleedged to marry her under 
tliat will, or am I not obleedged to marry 
her ? ' . 

" Squire Tyson got a little red in the face, 
I thought, and pretended fur a minute that 
he wanted to look out of the back winder ; 
and when I asked him agin, he wheels 
around and says : ' I'm not a-sayin' you're 
obleedged and I'm not a-sayin' you're not 
obleedged. What I want to know,' says he, 
' is what the case is wuth to me ? ' 

" It looked to me like he was a-wantin' to 
gain time to think it over, so I says : ' It 
might be wuth somethin' to you ef I could 
break the will ; but ef the law passes me 
right on to Mary Jones helpless, so's I've 
got to take her, the case is not wuth shucks. 
I won't pay a cent.' 

" So then he takes down a big yaller leather 
book and pretends to be looking up the facts, 
but I could see his mind wa'nt on it ; for he 
kep' a-turnin' and a- turn in' the leaves, till 
after while he says : * That will's not been re- 
gistrated, has it ? Very well, then, you must 
have it registrated the very fus' thing, so's to 
start right and keep along with the law.' 

" * Still try in' to gain time,' I thinks ; but, 
anyhow, I went right over to Tuckahoe in 
the next train and registrated the will, and 
there's where I give myself dead away." 

"How Avas that ? " I asked. 

" Why, when the will was once registrated, 
anybody could read it ; and it was such a 
queer will that the news got about, an' the 
fus' thing I knowed, the Tuclmhoe Register 
printed the hull document. The next day 
five men from the city come down, and in 
the mornin' the Philadelphia papers had the 
will in, an' a picture they said was me, but 
Cap Chambers said it was a picture of General 
Burnside, that he fit under in the war. 

• "But the wust of it was that they said I 
was a wealthy shipowner and clammer ; that I 
farmed a cranberry bog, and was one of the 
Cap'ns of Industry in South Jersey. I never 
seen such lyin'. I wouldn't take a cranberry 
bog as a gif', and the LoremCs the only craft 
1 own. 

" Howsomedever, that very morning after 
the papers got down, the widder Jones — 
Mary Ulrich Jones - slie comes right over to 
see me, and pushes into the settin'-room with- 



out even knockin', and sets down in Matty's 
rockin'-cliair. She was a- try in' to look solenni, 
but I seen slie was a-snickerin' to herself. 
" ' This yer is strange news to me, Joseph — 

'* He dropped his spade and hurried to the back door."" 

very, very strange,' says she,* a-fnmblin' her 
handkercher around her nose and eyes. ^ It 
was quite a shock to me. I hadn't really 
thought o' marryin' agin. Dear Matty ! 

She was always kind an' fond o' givin' things. 
Is that comb real imitation that she gave 
Ann Martin ? I disremember it. And Jennie 
gets that lovely coffee-pot, and T git you.' 

" ' As fur gittin' me, Mrs. Jones,' says 
I, * what the law says goes. Ef it says 
Matty had a right to will me away, you 
git me. Ef it don't say so, why, maybe 
we'll see about it.' 

" ' Jes' so,' says she. * We must obey 
the law. I'll be no lawbreaker, and have 
to go to the penitentiary with stripe clothes 
on, and live in a cell on bread and water 
and cold things ! Never ! And speakin' 
o' clothes,' says she, 'Matty's always lit 
me like t was growed fur 'em ; and 
that grey shally's the very thing with 
my complexion ■ — don't you think so, 
Joseph ? ' 

" ' Mrs. Jones,' says I, ' I'm no 'thority 
on shallies and complexions.' 

" ' Mine is brown,' she says ; ' but 
Abrum always said my double chin and 
my dimples was my charm.' Abrum 
was her fust. But I was kind o' mad, 
and so I says : ' I never cared much fur 
'em ' ; and then she said she was af eared 
it'd grow larger herself, and so she 
was takin' Swedisli movements to reduce 

" Reduce tlie dimple ? " I asked. 
" The double chin. Site was takin' 
the movements from a professor over at 
Manasaukin. Nine long breaths in the 
morning, nine in the afternoon, and 
fourteen at night, with Injun clubs at 
eleven and seven. 

"Then she starts up agin and says 

she didn't care so much fur marriage, 

but she was sure Matty'd lia'nt her ef 

she broke the will. ' She was an angel 

woman,' she says, ' with good qualities, 

but I'm bound to say no housekeeper to 

make a man comfortable.' 

" Then she gits up and rubs her finger on 
ill 3 winder-glass, to let on it wa'nt clean, and 
flicks the dust off the mantelpiece with her 
handkercher, and pulls the table-cover on 
straight, and sets down agin, lookin' at the 
pipe in my hand. Then she says : ' Abrum 
never smoked in the settin'-room, on account 
o' my nerves ; and I do hope you'll git to love 
our dog, but I'm V)ound to tell you he's 
suspicious of strangers. And ef you are 
willin', I'll fetch right over, so's you kin finish 
'em, the two bottles and part of another bottle 
of Dr. I^alch's Specific, that Abrum was 
takin' when he died.' 

" ' Mrs. Jones,' says I, ' we'll put them 



and the dog off until things is more settled 
about the law.' 

" ' Mrs. Jones ! ' says she. ' Now, that's 
distant ! Why not just Mary, so's you'll 
get used to it ? Abrum's pet name was 

" I was glad to be rid of her, as you may 
think ; but wuss was a-comin' ! Them 
pictures and lies in the papers set all the 
Mary Joneses in the country wild. They 
begun to send in their likenesses when they 
couldn't come themselves, and I've got three- 
quarters of a peck of photographs o' women 
so homely you couldn't cut 'em up fur bait 
without scarin' the fish. The mail was full 
of 'em, and the postmaster was obleedged to 
put another boy on the force. Letters I 
Bushels of 'em ! all claimin' to be from the 
only real Mary Jones. Came from every- 
wheres ; only the fur-away places, like 
Arizona and the Phillipynes, to hear from. 

" But that wa'nt nothin'. The Mary 
Joneses begun to swarm into Bivalve like a 
freshet. From Cayuga and Chillicothe and 
St. Louis and Perkiomen and Skippack and 
Yonkers and most everywheres. Alec Joy 
put on two more stages to the Junction. 
Mary Ann Jones came, and Mary Jane Jones 
and Mary P. Jones and Mary Musgrove 
Jones and plain Mary Joneses, till you 
couldn't count 'em. 

" One Mary Jones brought her mother and 
three trunks and a canary bird, and another 
carried her golf-set down, and another one 
broke her spectacles on the train and got off 
by mistake at Pullalong station, so she footed 
it over and got to Bivalve at ten o'clock at 
night, just wore out, and was took ill, and 
sent fur me to come to the hotel to see her 
with the doctor. It jes' rained Mary Joneses, 
you might say, all bound to carry out poor 
Matty's will and to become partners in the 
cranberry bog with the Cap'n of Industry. 

" Skeered ! My Hfe wa'nt safe. So I sent 
for Cap Chambers, and he brought over the 
musket he fit with in the war, as I was a- 
sayin', and I paid him two dollars a day to 
stand guard out by my front gate and fend 
'em off. There he was, a-marchin' up and 
down with his weepin, and there they was, 
hangin' over the fence and campin' around 
on the grass, determined not to quit until 
they seen the Cap'n of Industry. I was so 
nervous I couldn't eat, and ijie postmaster 
every once in a while sendin' in fresh pictures 
and fresh letters from all over the rollin' 
earth, till the house wouldn't hold 'em. 

" Two or three times the delegation tried 
to rush Cap Chambers, but he had nerve, 

and held 'em off by sweepin' the horizon 
with his gun. 

" In the midst of it he let in our own 
Mary Ulrich Jones, because he knowed her ; 
and when she was once in the house, lookin' 
pale and skeered, Cap let another one in — a 
young thing with gold hair and a lovely smile, 
who worked on his feelins so's he couldn't 
say * No ' to her. 

" So there we was. Mary Ulrich Jones, of 
Bivalve, and this other one, who introduced 
herself as Mary Jones Barlow, of the Eastern 
Shore of Maryland, and made herself at home 
right off. 

" Then I sent a boy fur Squire Tyson ; and 
when he came, I says : ' Now% Squire, this 
thing's got to be settled. Let the law take 
its course, ef you know what the law is. 
What I want to know is : Must I marry 
Mary Jones under the will ? and ef so, which 
Mary Jones ? ' 

" Mary Ulrich Jones goes and sets down 
by the stove, lookin' half mad and half 's if 
she was goin' to cry, and starin' hard at the 
widder from Maryland, who comes over and 
sets clost to me and picks a thread off o' the 
sleeve of my coat, and puts her white hand 
on the arm o' my rockin'-chair. She wa'nt 
goin' to be bluffed — I seen that right off. 

" Then Squire Tyson clears his throat and 
pulls up his collar and says : ' There's two 
p'ints to this yer case. Fus' : Is that will o' 
Martha Bass's reg'lar ? The law says, " Yes." 
A will gives away prop'ty. Was Joseph Bass 
prop'ty ? Certain and sure. Accord in' to 
the law, when he married the said Martha 
Bass, he became bone o' her bone ; and ef a 
woman hain't got a right to give away her 
own bones, what right has she got ? 
Second,' says he : ' Which Mary Jones was 
intended by the said Martha Bass in writin' 
that will ? Here we have trouble,' says he. 
' I dunno, and you dunno, and nobody dunno. 
And so what I say is, instead o' fightin' and 
lawin' about it, s'pos'n we put the said 
Joseph Bass up and rafile him off, and let all 
the Mary Joneses take chances ? ' 

" Lookin' out o' the winder while he was 
a-speakin', you could see the crowd at the 
fence, and Cap Chambers holdin' his musket 
at ' ready.' 

*' So I steps over to the Squire and whispers 
to him : ' Speakin' about what it is wuth to 
you, it'll be wuth jes' twenty dollars ef you 
can fix it betwixt these two and settle it on 
the Maryland one.' 

" Then Squire Tyson clears his throat 
agin and says : * The said Joseph Bass says 
two's enough, and now I propose that these 



yer two candidates plays checkers to decide 
which one has him.' 

" The Squire knowed Mary lUrich Jones 
was drefful weak on checkers. 

" So Mary Jones Barlow, from the Eastern 
Shore of Maryland, says : ' I'd ruther chance 
it with a spellin' bee,' for likely she was poor 
at checkers, too, and strong on spellin'. 

"But Mary Ulrich Jones, almost a-spittin' 
fire, says : * No ! I won't raffle, and I won't 
checker, and I won't spell. I'm 'posed to 

yer Mary Ulrich Jones and Mary Jones 
Barlow, qjaimants under the will of the said 
Martha Bass. Now, it's clear,' says he, ' that 
one claimant started 'riginally as Mary 
Ulrich and the other started 'riginally as Mary 
Jones. So ef you take Mary Jones Barlow 
and resolve her into her 'riginal elements that 
she had afore she was married, there you 
have her, Mary Jones. And so ef you take 
Mary Ulrich Jones and resolve her into her 
'riginal elements, what do you get ? Jes' 

' Now, Squire, this thing's got to be settled.' " 

gamblin' in any form ; it's agin the Com- 
mandments ; and ef ever I start in to break 
'em, I'll break 'em fur a man that ain't 
liomely.' Spite agin me, you know, because 
the Maryland widder was so handsome. 
' And her name ain't Jones, anyway,' says 
Mary Ulrich Jones. 

" That made the Squire go over and 
whisper to her until I seen her get more 
cheerful ; and then the Squire says : ' That 
Jones difficulty is reg'lated by law. We have 

Mary Ulrich. No Jones there ; and so I 
decide that under the will of the said Martha 
Bass the said Joseph Bass goes to that 
woman a-settin' there' — p'intin', you under- 
stand, at the Maryland widder. 

"Then Mary Ulrich Jones gits up and 
hooks herself to Squire Tyson's arm and 
goes right out the door without sayin' ' Good- 
bye ' ; although I thought I caught her a- 
whisperin' to the Squire ' Good riddance ! ' 
• — which was what I thought. 



"Squire Tyson told the news to Cap 
Chambers, and he shouted to the crowd that 
it was all over. So thej scattered fur home, 
and Cap Chambers shouldered his musket 
and went over to the blacksmith shop and 
drawed the load ; and there I was, jes' a-settin' 
there alone with Mary Jones Barlow fi'om 
the Eastern Shore of Maryland ; and I wa'nt 
mad about it, neither. 

" She shook her gold hair and laughed as 
Mary Jones went out with the Squire, and 
says : ' I knowed you wouldn't ha\ e her.' 

" ' Never, Mrs. Barlow ! ' says I. 

" ' Not Mrs. Barlow ! Don't call me that,' 
says she. ' Call me Dottv. Harry used to.' 

" ' What Harry ? ' says" I. 

" ' My first husband,' says she. ' Are you 
very, very fond o' flowers ? He used to love 
'em so. And I'm sure you don't know 
the language of flowers ; now, do you ? 
ft is so lovely. Daffodils — what's the 
meaning o' daffodils ? ' 

" ' I dnnno, ma'am,' says I. 

" ' Why,' says she, ' they mean " un- 
requited love." Isn't that just sweet ? 
And pansies ? Now guess. " Thoughts of 
you ! " So nice, ain't it ? Did anybody 
ever read your palm ? ' 

" ' No, ma'am ! ' says I. 

" Then she reached over and patted 
my necktie and took hold o' my hand, 
and that very minuta the front winder 
begun to dance up and down, and the 
room to go round and round. 

" *Le' me look,' says Mary Jones 
Barlow, fixin' her eyes on the palm of 
my hand. * What do I see here? ^ .;" 

I see a fair young woman with gold ^ 

hair whose future is linked with 
yourn ; and I see a dark threat 
acrost your path from a middle-aged woman 
with a double chin. But all ends happily, 
because you were, born under a lucky star, 
when Mars was in applegee,' 1 think she said. 

" So, then, Mary Jones Barlow kep' a hold 
o' my hand and says : ' Where is the family 
jewels, Joseph ? ' And I says : ' I never had 
no family jewel but Matty.' And then she 
says : ' I want you to show me your cranberry 
bog right away, please. I do so love to 
wander about among the cranberries and pick 
'em when the dew is on 'em. Where is it 
located? ' 

"80 I had to tell her that I had no cran- 
berry bog, and no real estate of any kind but 
this lot around my house, one hundred and 
sixty-four feet by seventy-two. 'Cap 
Chambers,' I says, ' owns the only cranberry 
bog anywheres about yer.' 

" ' No family jewels,' she says, lookin' out 
the winder, ' and no cranberry bog ! I've 
been deceived. But you are a Cap n of 
Industry and a wealthy shipowner ? ' says 
she, lookin' straight at me till I blinked. 

" ' No, ma'am,' says I. ' The Lorena cat- 



t ■;■: 

^' Hooks herself to Squire 
Tyson's arm." 

boat's all the craft I own, and I'm cap'n of 
notliin' but her.' 

''She dropped my" hand and looked kind 
0' sad, 

" ' And tliis place is mortgaged for half its 
value, too,' says I. 

"She started for her bonnet, which was 
a-layin' over on the settin'-room table by 
the front winder. 

" ' But what's mortgages where the 
affections is involved ? ' says I, for I was 
worried about her. 



" ' H-m-in,' says she. ' Mortgages, cafc- 
])oats, cmiiherry bogs ! Well, Mr. Bass, I 
think 1 must be goin'. The train starts at 
11.86, I think. I've jes' time to ketch it.' 

"'And everything's off ?' says I — ' Matty's 
will, an' all?' 

*'* Matty must 'a' been a queer bird,' says 
she, a-puttin' on her glove and workin' it 
down with her finger and thumb. ' I never 
cared for Jersey. The Eastern Shore's good 
enough for me. Good niornin' ! ' 

" Then she flitted out, and from the winder 
I seen her climb into Alec Joy's stage and 
start for Hurryup Junction before I could 
get my breath. The curious thing was. Cap 
Chambers got in with her ; and to make a long 
story short, they both come back in the same 
stage that evenin', and Cap ran over before 
dark to tell me that he and Mary Jones 
Barlow was to be married three weeks from 
Tuesday. The thing that fetched her was 
that he owmed a cranberi'y bog. Extr'or'nary 
thing, the yearnin' o' that widder fur a 
cranberry bog — and so young, too ! 

"Well, that night, when they was all gone, 
I got my ow^i supper, and I set there in the 
settin'-room alone, thinkin' and gettin' lone- 
somer and lonesomer, and madder and madder 
at Mary Jones Barlow at the way she played 
it low down on me. And the more I kep' a- 
thinkin', the more it seemed to me 's if may- 
be, after all, Mary Ulrich Jones, of Bivalve 
Centre, must 'a' been the woman Matty really 
meant —and she's not such a rag of a w^oman 
neither, ef you looked at it right. And 
then I said to myself that I could smoke 
comfortable in the front yard, and Mary's 
dog wouldn't be so bad to keep off tramps, 
and the winder-panes was a leetle cloudy, and 
Matty's clothes w^ould fit Mary Jones, and it 
wa'nt playin' fair to Matty jes' to break her 

"So, in the mornin', I steps over to 
Squire Tyson's office, and I says to him : 

' Squire, there's some p'ints about your law 
that's not perfeckly straight, now that 1 
think on it.' 

" ' What's them ? ' says he, pretty cross. 

" ' Why,' says I, ' only one o' them women 
was a real fair and square Mary Jones, and 
that's the one that lives yer in Bivalve.' 

" ' Never you mind about no law, or no 
p'ints o' law,' says he, very sharp. * You're 
better at clammin' than at law^ — or at courtin' 
either,' he says, with a kind o' wicked 

" ' Well, that's the Mary Jones I'm a-goin' 
to take under the will, anyhow,' says I. 

" ' I guess not,' says he, a-fumblin' with 
some papers on his desk, and a-smilin* tG 
himself ; ' because Mary and I hev hit it, and 
we're a-goin' to be married three w-eeks from 
Tuesday, along with Cap Chambers — goin' 
to hev a double w^eddin'.' 

" Supprisin', ain't it, how much.wuss a man 
wants a w^oman fur a wife when he can't git 
her ? " 

Captain Bass stopped and sighed, and I 
thought his breast heaved, but it may have 
been a mere movement of his loose shirt- 
front, for the wind just then sprang up 
strong out of the south-west, and Captain 
Bass put the Lorena about, and we began 
to go back towards the fishing-ground. 

There was another boat coming towards us ; 
and as she drew near. Captain Bass gave 
a start, and he said to me softly : " Tliat's 
Cap Chambers and Mary .Tones Barlow over 
there, now^ ! They're a-goin' down to see 
his cranberry bog." 

As they passed us, Mary Jones Barlow, 
with her golden hair flying in the wind, 
threw kisses at us a couple of times. Captain 
Bass pulled his soft hat down over his eyes 
and took no notice ; but again I saw^ a lump 
go down his throat by his Adam's apple, and 
I'm almost sure I heard hin; say, under his 
breath : " Blame them Joneses ! " 


YN every heart there is one lonely spot, 

That Memory revisits, — in her tears, — 
Where wander, mute, yet never quite forgot, 
The loved of vanished years ! 




WE should never have thought of a 
poacher if we hadn't seen those 
footprints in the sand. It was 
our own particular barbel swim — that was 
the trouble — and we'd had magnificent and 
consistent sport till there came a day, followed 
by others, when we never even got a bite. 
We were exceedingly puzzled, but we knew 
that the fish were there^ and every morning 
before lessons began we rushed off to ground- 
bait — ah ! how we ground-baited ! Even now 
I hate to think of that lob- worm slaughter ! 
— and every afternoon when lessons were 
over we hurried away to the river, only to 
return with drooping spirits and an empty 
basket. It was on one of these occasions, as 
we were preparing for our dejected walk 
home, that White Panther's eagle eye caught 
sight of a strange trail. He dropped with 
his ear to the ground as if he had been shot, 
and I — sworn to serve, obey, and imitate — 
dropped also. Twinges of cramp were just 
stealing up my muscles when he rose with 
the remark — 

" Too late ! But to-morrow the coyote dog 
will come again, and he shall not return." 

" Shall you fight him ? " I inquired. He 
glanced at me with contempt. 

" Blitherer ! " he said disdainfully. " The 
White Panther does not fight coyote dogs — 
he Idlls them ! " 

I said " Oh ! " and followed submissively 
as he turned on bis heel. 

White Panther is getting famous nowa- 
days ; but when he was a little boy in knicker- 
bockers, I was his only admirer. He realised 
for me the ideal of both our lives — a 
haughty Indian chief with pure Mexican 
blood in his veins, this anomaly being 
accounted for in the romantic mystery of 
his birth. Certainly I was an ideal follower, 
and it was enough for me to share in his 
sanguinary raids, miraculous escapes, and go 
with him — how often! — to torture and 
the death. We lived in an atmosphere of 
swarthy cahdleros, wrapped in graceful serapes 
with silver-fringed calzoneros and tinkling 
spurs. Oar language was high-flown and 
mysterious, and our keenest sorrow lay 
in the fact that we were English born. If 
we could have discovered the merest hint of 
even half-breed blood in our veins, the world 
would have been a different place for us. 


But no ; it was all quite ordinary and 
commonplace — not a shadow of doubt could 
be cast upon our origin, and I remember 
how wide poor Mamma opened her eyes 
when I hopefully suggested she was not 
really our mother. 

So, to the outside world the haughty Indian 
chief was only a freckle-faced boy in a 
shabby Norfolk suit, named Wi'ly, of all 
names, while the ladies staying at the house 
called that dashing cahallero of his, myself, 
"an insipid little creature with straw-coloured 
hair." They would have been astonished if 
they had known how dreadfully straight the 
" insipid little creature " could hurl an open 
knife— the result of much stealthy practice 
in the barn. 

Our disgust, therefore, can be imagined 
when we found tliat we had been baffled by 
a poacher whose footprints were only a little 
bigger than mine and not so big as the 
Panther's. We knew those footprints well 
— it was the short, broad, thick-soled trail of 
Jem Mather, a coyote dog of the village, 
who owed the Panther a grudge ever since 
he had been chased for a mile and then 
thrashed for discovering this very river camp 
of ours. I happened to be behind the window 
curtains when Mrs. Mather came up to the 
house afterwards, and I heard Mamma answer 
her complaints with the reproachful cry — 

" What, Willy ! My gentle little Willy ! 
No, Mrs. Mather, my gentle Willy covld not 
do such a thing ! " — till the outraged matron 
was herself convinced. 

But Jem was equal to us at last, and we 
carefully matured our plans to score next 
and to score heavily. First we persuaded 
Mamma to give us a whole holiday without 
telling Father ; then we went round to the 
stables, found William, and pressed him into 
the service. We called William our vaquero, 
and he was very proud of the title, but in 
other quarters there seemed some difficulty 
in describing his position in the establish- 
ment, and I have often heard Father ask in 
heated tones " why he should be compelled 
to pay a young idlebones 7s. 6^. a week for 
getting into mischief." People sometimes 
thought that Father meant to be liumofous 
when he said things like that, but they took 
good care not to make the mistake a second 
time. At any rate, the young idlebones was 




invaluable to us. I fancy he took a real 
interest in our mysterious stratagems — I'm 
sure he did in our weekly pocket-money. 
On the present occasion the Panther promised 
him f ourpence, and I promised him twopence 
if our plans were successful — he would have 
sixpence, anyhow, for taking a barrow-load 
of things down to the river. 

It was a clear June morning, with a fresh 
breeze to fan our hot, excited cheeks, when 
we started on our enterprise. The Panther 
carried a lariat and a lasso wound round his 
body, the former to picket our prisoner with, 
the latter to recapture him in case he eluded 
our guard. The weapons he secreted in the 
belt under his Norfolk jacket, and I remember 
how the scalping-knife— a disused oyster- 
opener — kept slipping down into the leg of 
his knickerbockers. My loose sailor blouse 
was full to bulkiness. In front was a packet 
of tea and sugar, loot from the grocery cup- 
board, and half a tin of condensed milk, 
which caused me some anxiety, as the warm 
weather had made it in a very liquid state. 
A star map went flat against my back, and 
was quite comfortable when once we had got 
it in. I also found room for two bullet- 
moulds, a small spirit-stove, and a bottle of 
aguardientp. Aguardiente is the Mexican 
for wine — in our case it happened to be cold 
tea, flavoured with brown sugar and lemon 
juice. It was an excellent drink — at least, we 
fought all our battles on it, and they were 
anything but bloodless. We were specially 
anxious "to keep out of Father's way, for he 
not only expected us to be at our lessons, 
but his suspicions had already been aroused 
by a recent occurrence. It was on the occa- 
sion of one of our raids, two days before, and 
I was the vidette stationed in the shrubbery, 
with one eye on Tompkins watering the 
asparagus, and the other on that Apache dog 
" Knock Knee " — otherwise Dr. Simpson — 
coming up the drive in his gig. At much 
personal risk. White Panther had scalped 
three beetroots — we loved scalping beetroots, 
it was so realistic — and with the trophies 
hanging from his belt was squirming along 
by the vegetable-garden wall, entirely ignorant 
of Father's presence until he blundered into 
his legs. 

" Well, Willy, and what does this mean ? " 
I heard Father exclaim in tones of long- 
suffering. From White Panther's red and 
sullen face, I knew he was refusing to explain ; 
and he was right, for Father would never 
have understood. But he became very 
angry, and I heard him vociferate after 
White Panther as he slunk away — 

"I'll trouble you to keep out of my 
garden, sir, if that's all you can do. I'll try 
and find some means of putting a stop to 
this wanton destruction. What is the use of 
me paying my gardeners, with a boy like you 
about the place ? " 

But to-day all went well with us ; and as 
we stole round by the house, we heard Father 
and Mother safely talking together in the 
morning-room. It was evident that a call 
of much importance was to be made that 
afternoon, and Mother was referring the 
question of her toilet to Father, as she 
always did, and Father was insisting on the 
smartest possible both in gown and carriage. 
When Mother suggested that, " after all, 
she may be out," we heard Father say : " No ; 
I believe she goes nowhere at all, though I 
hope it's possible we may induce her to 
make an exception in our favour. At any 
rate, I wish to leave no stone unturned, and 
to pay her every attention." 

It was a fact that Father was the leading 
man in our part of the county, a fact he 
always kept well in view ; and if we had 
been less engrossed in our own business, we 
should certainly have wondered who might 
be the object of this unusual consideration. 

Can I ever forget our river camp, or how 
lovely and peaceful it looked that day, the 
sunhght flickering through the branches of 
the ash-stoles, and picking out brilliant little 
patches in the still, dark water of the pool ? 
How perfectly happy I felt, as I sank down 
and began to sift the fine warm sand 
between my fingers, and quite forgot our 
desperate undertaking in the delight of being 
there once more ! We loved our river 
passionately, and every hour spent beside it 
seemed somehow to make it more part of 
ourselves. But White Panther called me to 
his side, where he was unpacking the wheel- 
barrow that William had brought down for 
us. There was methylated spirit and a bottle 
of soda-water, bought in mistake for 
lemonade, a hammock-chair — for the Chief 
liked to be luxurious — and a curious assort- 
ment of stakes and small poles, and a good- 
sized piece of garden netting. Indeed, there 
was no time for dreaming, for we had much 
work before us. The summer morning wore 
stealthily away, the passing of the hours 
only marked by the patches of sunlight 
moving further across the river, and it must 
have been after two before we were ready 
for our visitor. Then w^e straightened our 
backs and looked upon our work with silent 
delight, for our preparations had been exten- 
sive and elaborate. The pitfall was a man-trap 



much in vogue with us at that time, and is 
made, as most people know, by tunnelling 
the sand as far as possible in various direc- 
tions, while the hole left for the hand and 
arm is easily concealed by two or three twigs, 
some loose leaves, and a thin layer of sand. 
We had directed our attention principally to 

among the pitfalls, the net would drop on 
his bewildered head and complete his ruin — 
at least, we hoped it would. I was to be 
stationed in another ambush with the draw- 
string in my hand, which, when I jerked 
tight at a given signal, w^ould not only 
secure but possibly half -strangle our wretched 

Dr. Simpson coming up the drive in 
his gig." 

the narrow path leading to the pool, while 
overhead, in the branches of the ash-stoles. 
White Panther had stretched the garden 
netting and an ingenious arrangement of 
stakes and poles, with small weights attached. 
The whole thing was worked by a piece 
of clothes-line under his control, and as 
the coyote dog tripped and floundered 

victim. Silently we swallowed a few mouth- 
fuls of buffalo steak, and Avitli a couple of 
pulls at the aguardiente bottle nerved our- 
selves for the coming encounter. Silently 
we donned our mocassins and blacked our 
eyebrows. White Panther fastened on 
Father's spurs and distributed the weapons. 
Then nt a signal we narted and noiselessly 



retired to our respective ambushes. From 
where I crouched I could see, through the 
veil of leaves, glimpses of the dazzling 
water, where the river passed from the 
shade of the trees and left the dark pool 
for the brilliant sunshine. I wanted so 
much to be an ideal 
Indian sc^oiit, every 
nerve tense, nnd ear 
andeyeon the strain. 
But somehow, that 
languid afternoon, 
things Monld ke'cp 
growing far awuy 
and distant ; the 
murninr of tlie 
gentle river gradu- 
ally changed to tlie 
rush and roar of the 
wind on the rolling 

the incidents of my dream, when suddenly 
on the opposite tree-trunk the great green 
woodpecker tapped thrice. I w^as instantly 
on the alert, for it was our alarm note, and 
I knew the poacher was near. I heard 
footsteps — I was sure of it — and the sound 
of someone pushing back 
])ran(;hes. My breath 
came short, and the 
beating of my heart 
made me feel sick 
and choked. The 
next moment there 
was a scuffling 
st)und, a quick 
exclamation, a 
crash among 
the branches. 


prairie ; I saw a moving herd of buffalo 
on the horizon, while in the foreground 
a party of painted Redskins hotly pursued 
a silken-locked cahallero. I followed his 
hairbreadth escapes in a sort of drowsy 
comfort, half conscious that I was guiding 

I om pony, madam, tliat this lias happened; but 
somebody has been poaching our barbel.' ' 

and my fingers tightened on the draw- 

"Pull!" cried White Panther, and I 
pulled in the ecstasy of my excitement, and 
felt a fierce pride in the anguished ejacula- 
tions that followed. 



Then the voice of my Chief exclaimed 
with haughty insolence : " Surrender ! You 
are my prisoner ! " 

I quitted my ambush and presented myself 
on the field of action. Surely never had 
trap acted better — never in our experience 
before or since has trap acted so well ! 
Something grey was in the net, something 
that heaved and struggled and answered 
the challenge in a bluff, hearty voice. 

"Right you are ; but help me out of this ! " 

We hurried forward and loosened the cord, 
and gradually there extricated itself before 
our astonished gaze a stout, middle-aged 
lady. She wore an old shooting-skirt, a 
short, loose jacket, and thick boots. Her 
hair was ruffled, her hat very much on one 
side, and I think she had swallowed a good 
deal of sand. 

" Oh ! " cried White Panther. " I'm 
awfully " 

Then he stopped, and his brow darkened, 
for he caught sight of the rod in her hand 
and the basket on her back. To be out- 
witted by a village boy was bad enough, but 
the discovery that he had been fooled by a 
woman brought the hot blood to his cheek. 
He drew himself up and rose proudly to the 

" I am sorry, madam, that this has 
happened," he said ; "but somebody has 
been poaching our barbel. It was necessary to 
stop it. If any mistake has been made '' 

At this, the lady, who had been trying to 
get rid of the sand, stopped choking and 
looked down at us both with a pair of very 
shrewd blue eyes. 

" No mistake," she said — or rather 
vociferated, her voice was so loud and 
manly — " quite right. I'm the poacher ! 
I've had some fine sport. Didn't expect it 
would last. No excuse, except there were 
the fish and here was my rod." 

" I suppose you know you're trespassing ? " 
observed the Panther. 

" Trespassing ! " she laughed. Such a 
bluff, hearty, weather-beaten laugh, it was 
like her face and her dress and everything 
about her. " Bless you, my friend ! I've 
been trespassing all my life. But I did 
begin to wonder whom those very fine barbel 
belonged to." 

White Panther looked dignified and said : 

" And you are ? " 

" The White Panther ! " I exclaimed. It 
was the only remark I made during the whole 
interview — I was not a talker in those days — 
and it slipped out spontaneously. Next 

moment I saw a quiver go through my Chief's 
face, and could have bitten out my tongue to 
recall the tell-tale words. He shrank from 
derision, but, like the hero that he was, braced 
himself silently to bear it. It never came. 
Instead, the poacher bowed gravely, and her 
blue eyes took note of the mocassins, scalping- 
knives, and blackened eyebrows without the 
suspicion of a smile. 

" Well," she said, with a cheerful sigh, " I 
am your prisoner, as you say. I don't want to 
be inquisitive, but I should like to know what 
you are going to do with me. I suppose it 
will be a ransom or my life ? " She pursed 
her hps thoughtfully. " I'm sure," she said, 
" my good people could never raise the 
ransom, so I suppose it will have to be the 
other thing. In that case," she added, 
looking down at her feet, " you might let 
Trix have the boots — she's badly wanting a 

"Madam," replied White Panther — and 
how I admired him at that moment, he 
seemed so noble ! — " I never kill women. I 
shall not even wish to detain you if you will 
give me your word of honour to respect my 
property in future." 

" Couldn't do it ! " exclaimed the poacher. 
" No, Senor Panther, I'm willing to take the 
consequences, but I never guarantee anything 
to anybody ; and if I did, a woman's word 
isn't worth that ! " She snapped her fingers. 
" I don't ask for promises, and I don't make 
'em. But at the same time, you'll find me a 
very docile captive. I shan't give you any 
trouble— that is, if you feed me regularly." 

We exchanged uneasy glances. "And 
now," she added, " I don't know that I mind 
sitting down, if you've got such a thing as 
a chair." 

We hastened to adjust the hammock-chair, 
and after carefully examining the supports 
herself — which, in the light of recent events, 
was excusable — she lowered herself rather 
stiffly into its depths. 

" Ah ! that's nice," she exclaimed in her 
bluff, hearty way. " I'm told I've got one 
or two comfortable chairs of my own at 
home ; but with all my young people about, I 
don't get much chance of trying 'em." 

Her praise of the chair seemed to please 
White Panther. 

" Can I offer you any refreshment ? " he 
inquired politely. 

" Welly'" she replied, screwing up her face 
in a whimsical little smile— and for all it was 
rough and weather-beaten, it was the delicate- 
featured face of a lady — " I've not only 
poached your barbel, but I've swallowed 



some of your sand, and I think I could 
do with just a small drink to wash it down." 

I turned at once to the camp pantry with 
my hand on the aguardiente bottle, but 
White Panther stayed me with an imperative 

" What will you take, madam ? " he said. 

She pursed her lips and looked up at him 
wdth her head a little on one side. 

" Well," she remarked, " I mustn't stretch 
the resources of this outpost too far — suppose 
we say a small whisky-and-soda ? " 

There was a silence. ^ 

" Or, if you haven't soda," she exclaimed, 
as if an afterthought struck her, "I'll take 
it plain — just as soon have plain water." 

"Madam," replied White Panther with 
dignity, " we have soda." 

He came across to where I stood rooted to 
the ground. 

" Aren't you going to tell her we haven't 
any whisky ? " I whispered, but I saw from 
his grim-set jaw that he would rather die 
than confess such a defection to one who 
had taken the whole thing so seriously. 
His frenzied glance ranged the stores — mine 
followed — and both came to a sudden stop 
at the squat whisky bottle that held our 
methylated spirit. We faced each other. It 
had been done before — our acquaintance with 
prairie literature taught us that. It had 
been done before, and done without soda. 
Our glances met furtively — no word was 
. spoken. I turned away and presently heard 
the sound of a bottle chink against a glass, 
and then the pop of a soda-water cork. 

When White Panther approached the 
hammock-chair with a tumbler half full of 
fizzing liquid in his hand, our prisoner cer- 
tainly looked astonished. She glanced from 
White Panther to me very curiously, and 
took the glass from his hand. 

" Well. Good fishing I " she said in a 
cordial voice, and drank it off. I half 
expected her to die at once, but she only 
coughed and pulled a big handkerchief out 
of one of the roomy pockets of her coat and 
wiped her eyes. Then she looked at us both 
again, and remarked very gravely-r- 

" That's a fine dry whisky, seiior — Mexi- 
can brand, I presume. I wish I had got 
some like it for my boys. I believe it would 
satisfy them sooner than Scotch." 

Then she coughed again — very up- 
roariously this time — behind her hand- 
kerchief. I still felt uneasy, and I was much 
relieved when she lifted her face, to see that 
her eyes were twinkling. 

"Why, this is like old times!" she cried 

gaily. " Don't think it's my first experience of 
being taken prisoner. Oh, no ! I was over 
in Arizona in '78 — having a prowl round 
with poor Harry. The freebooters got hold 
of us — thought we were spies — kept us in 
their cave best part of a week. Never had 
such a good time in my life— never ! " 

" Did you live in a cave ? " said White 

" We did. Such a cave, too. Talk about 
Arabian Nights. Eight up on the mountain- 
side—just a little dark entrance; but I 
thought I was dreaming when I got inside. 
Turkey carpets on the floor — silk cushions — 
grand pianos — electric light — iced cham- 
pagne — pate de " She paused and looked 

keenly at us. We had drawn quite close and 
were drinking in every word. 

"The only drawback I found with the 
place," she continued carelessly, " was that 
they would leave the nuggets of gold about 
the floor, and poor Harry (my late husband) 
being sliortsighted, used to keep tripping 
over them. Why, there's nothing in the 
world like being out there and seeing things 
you would never dream of at home. Not 
but what I was very glad to get home," she 
added thoughtfully. 

" Are you English, then ? " asked White 
Panther, and the question was on my lips 
too, for she was so different to Mamma and 
all the ladies we knew. 

" Well, I should hope so," she observed 
drily, and that brief remark went a long 
way to curing us of our Mayne Reid fancies. 

" There's no place like the old place,"* she 
continued ; " and as I always say, you'll find 
sportsmen all the world over, but they always 
came from England to start with. Now just 
as an instance — a couple of years ago, while 
I was living with my youngsters out in -" 

But our greedy ears never heard where, 
for at that moment a clear, ringing voice 
from beyond the trees called out — 

" Mummy ! Mummy ! Where are you ? 

" Hal — lo ! " vociferated our captive in 
reply. Then she turned to White Panther. 

" Senor Panther," she said, " here are 
some of my people come to find me. I really 
feel quite flattered — and I suppose I must 
explain the situation." 

I looked at him also, but he avoided our 
glances and began to kick at a stump of 
wood in the ground ; then he said hurriedly — 

" No — don't ; and — you're quite welcome 
to any barbel you like— in future." 

" Thank you," she replied heartily, " but 
I won't touch one of 'em. What's more, I'll 
send you round a bucket of ground-bait in 



' It was Father 1 " 

the morning. I'm pretty sure I owe you 
some. My own special mixture, so give it 
a trial. 

" Now then, Trix, what do you want ? " 
she cried, as a girl came down the path 
followed by a gentleman who was trying to 
protect her from the springing branches— a 
girl with a mischievous, dainty face, fair hair 
curling up under her tam-o'-shanter, and 

her lips parted in a surprised little smile. I 
was used to fashionable ladies up at the 
house, and at first glance I thought Trix 
was fashionable, too, but there was a certain 
untidiness about her. Her dress, if well 
cut, was certainly well worn, the lace round 
her throat wasa'little draggled; but then her 
face w^as a picture, and every expression that 
crossed it was more captivating than the last. 



But when we glanced at the gentleman who 
was holding back the branches, we became 
transfixed where we stood — for it was Father! 

"Why, Mummy," said Trix, " the Ever- 
ards have called, and Mr. Everard came 
down with me to look for you." 

" That's very charming of Mr. Everard," 
remarked our prisoner, holding out her hand 
with a smile. I have never seen Father so 
deferential and courtly ; he bowed over the 
poacher's hand and was just in the middle 
of a little speech about the pleasure the 
meeting gave him, ^when his eye fell on 
White Panther. 

" Willy! " he said, in quite a different 
voice, " what are you doing here ? " 

" Why, is that a boy of yours ? " de- 
manded the poacher, looking from one to 
the other with her shrewd blue eyes. 

Father gave an uneasy assent. 

" Really ! " she exclaimed. " And we've 
'been spending the whole afternoon together 
without knowing it ! He's a very fine fellow, 
Mr. Everard, and I congratulate you." 

Father looked extremely perplexed. It 
was quite unusual for him to look upon 
Willy as a matter for congratulation. 

" I hope they haven't disturbed your fish- 
ing," he said. " Miss Trix has been telling 
me what a good fisherman you are." 

" Oh, yes," said Trix, turning to White 
Panther. "You should see the baskets 
she's been bringing home lately." 

Our prisoner laughed. 

" Your -fishing, I believe, Mr. Everard," 
she observed. 

" No ; indeed, no ! " cried Father \'' yours 
— if you will do me the honour. I hope 
you've had some fair sport to-day." 

" Well, no ; the barbel have had a holiday 
this afternoon, and we've been having a long 
talk instead," replied our prisoner, while 
Trix exclaimed reproachfully — 

"Oh, Mummy! I believe you've been 
yarning. You poor things ! I know what 
she is." And she looked at us with a tender 
pity that was very bewitching. But Father 
could hardly conceal his annoyance. 

" They must have been worrying you," 
he remarked. ' "They're an extraordinary 
couple. I really must apologise for them." 

" My dear sir, I beg you won't. I'm the 
one to apologise for intruding into their own 
especial domain." 

" Ah ! and I'm afraid they hardly know 
how to do the honours at present," said 
Father rather bitterly. 

" Oh ! I can assure you they did the 
honours," replied the stout lady. " They 

gave me quite a warm welcome and treated 
me with most unexpected hospitality." 

I shuddered, but Father's face suddenly 

"Is that so ? " he said. "Well, I am very 
delighted to hear it ; and I must tell you 
that it was my ambition to be the first to 
entertain you in the neighbourhood, and I 
am gratified to know that it is my son who 
has been before me. Still, let me show you 
that my welcome can be as cordial as his." 

"Very good of you, I'm sure," replied the 
poacher, with abroad smile. "But where's 
your wife ? I mustn't keep her waiting any 
longer. I suppose your young people would 
rather stay where they are ? " 

" I don't understand why they are here at 
all," remarked Father. "They ought to be at 
their lessons." 

" My friend, they'll learn more lessons out- 
side the schoolroom, days like this. Not 
only learn 'em, but teach 'em, too," she added, 
with a twinkle in her eye. " Good-bye, both 
of you ; good-bye. Glad to have met you, 
and thank you for giving me such a good 
time. And look here, come and see m^ next 
week. I've got some fine carp in the pond, 
and a stack full of rats; and not a man- 
trap or spring gun on the premises— I'll 
guarantee that — won't I, Trix ? " 

"Oh, Mummy!" said Trix, with a re- 
signed air, as she took her by the arm and 
led her away, " wha^jbever are you talking 
about ? " Then looking at us with a be- 
witching little smile, she added : " She's 
quite mad— and such a responsibility." 

But Father stayed behind a moment. He 
was smiling very kindly — and put his hand 
on White Panther's shoulder. 

" My boy," he said, " I'm pleased with you. 
Polite attentions to a stranger are rarely 
wasted, and in this case they have found 
you a friend." 

Then he joined the others, and as they 
disappeared among the branches we heard 
him exclaiming at the state of the path, and 
assuring his companions he would have it 
attended to at once. 

W^hite Panther threw himself into the 
hammock-chair, and I sank down beside him 
and began to sift the sand through my 

" Who is she ? " I said. 

He shook his head moodily. 

"Do you think she'll tell ? " I asked. 

He looked up quickly. 

" No, I don't ! " was his brief reply, and it 
was evident that if White Panther had made 
a friend, the poacher had found an admirer. 



. U^^C^:,^^ 



AND • - 



THE casual person, vaguely interested 
in the beasts and birds around him, 
is inclined to look upon them as beings 
entirely different in every respect from the 
species of animal to which he himself 
belongs. In taking this attitude, he not 
only holds a quite erroneous view, but in all 
probability prevents himself from obtaining 
the pleasures which a small comparison of 
animal life with that of human beings would 
afford him. The truth is that the student 
of natural history is at every turn confronted 
with facts about animals which have parallels 
in human beings— often parallels exact to an 
almost inconceivable degree ; and a know- 
ledge of this fact ought to awaken our 
interest and sympathy for the dumb creatures 
around us. In their behaviour when young, 
" bird babies " reflect many of the habits of 
their human prototypes, and it is therefore 
possible that a few facts about them, viewed 
from an eminently human standpoint, may 
be of interest to the general reader. 

The nurseries in which bird babies are 
brought up are among the most beautiful 
objects in Nature. The long-tailed titmouse, 
for example, provides for its young not only 
a feather bed softer than that of the most 
sybaritic of human beings, but even roofs it 
over with moss and renders it watertight 
by an internal covering of spider-webs ; 
and would not many poor little children at 
the East End envy the young ducks revelling 
in a veritable bed of eiderdown plucked 
from their mothers' breasts ? 

The veracious historian is compelled, 
however, to admit that in bird life, as in our 
own, there is a submerged tenth whose 
children have to put up with much dis- 
comfort. The hoopoes, for instance, for all 
their refinement of aspect, generally con- 
struct a home from filthy, decaying matter 
and dung. In China, indeed, they evince a 
decided preference for holes in coffins, and in 
at least one case a nest has been found in the 
chest of a decomposed corpse. Such a case, 
however, may fortunately be regarded as 
the exception rather than the rule, for the 
sanitary conditions of the blind mites of the 
feathered world are in the great majority 
of cases exemplary. 

As might perhaps be expected, it is in 
cases where the nest is most elaborate that 
the chicks are least efficient on their 
emergence from the shell, while the young 
of the species which make no nest at all, but 
lay their eggs on the ground or in promis- 
cuous crannies, usually make their first 
bow to the world clad in downy pelisses 
(really singularly like those in which small 
human babies are often clothed) and able to 
take the initiative in their daily toddle in 
search of food. 

Birds' nests, as the majority of people are 
aware, may be found in almost any con- 
ceivable situation — on the branches or in 
the hollow trunks of trees ; on the face of 
cliffs ; on the ground ; in rabbit burrows ; 
or even occasionally floating on the water ! 

Not less diversified than the situations 





more liumaii method of build 
or stones. Houses of this 
tion must not, however, be 
as among the highest 
efforts of bird architecture. 

With these few words 
on bird nurseries, we turn 
to their inmates, the 
babies themselves. 

Bird babies, like those 

chosen are 
the materials 
of which the 
birds' nur- 
series are 
formed. Vege- 
table life it is 
w^hich does 
duty ill most 
cases, but 
in some de- 
mands are 

;. made upon 
the animal 
kingdom, as 
happens, for 
example, with 
the k i n g- 
fisher, which 
forms a nest 
entirely of 
fish -bones. 
Other aquatic 
birds make 
their houses 
of shells, 
while swal- 
lows, martins, 
and many 
others de- 
scend to the 

ing from mud 
itter descrip- 
looked upon 

of the human species, though occasionally 
pretty, are generally (except in the eyes 
of their indulgent parents) very much the 
reverse. Sadly in want of clothing, with 
eyes, appearing for the moment ridiculously 
like blue goggles, as yet unopened, to say 
nothing of their mouths, which even the 
most lenient must account preposterously 
large, nestlings strike a note of hideousness 
so unrelieved as to be fascinating. As 
in the human race, however, even the un- 
attractive n ess of babies has its exceptions, 
and nothing could be prettier than the 
sight of a new-born chicken, pheasant, or 
plover. Even in those cases in which the 
newly born are unattractive, the grotesque- 
ness of their forms soon disappears, and 
with more elaborate clothes, and eyes 
opened almost as wide as their expectant 
mouths, bird babies at this stage are, 
most of them, beautiful to a greater or 
less degree. This infantile attractiveness 
is seldom permanent. We are all familiar 
with the way boys and girls of our own 
species pass through a period of gawky 
awkwardness, and this happens no less 
among the babes of which we write. Particu- 
larly in the case of young plovers, sandpipers, 
and the like, there comes a time when, with 




legs too long for the undeveloped 
wings and tail, the little ones 
seem inclined to totter about as 
though outgrowing their 
strength, and in imminent 
danger of collapse until the 
moment arrives when the quills 
sprout and their normal balance 
is once more restored. 

Hatching successfully accom- 
plished, the first — nay, the only 
consideration is food. Most 
bird babies follow in their early 
days the simple but singularly 
efficacious plan of opening to 
the fullest extent their 


capacious mouths in readiness for 
the morsel to be dropped in by an 
assiduous father or mother. 

There are, however, no small 
number of cases in which strange ^ 
and interesting methods of taking 
nourishment are resorted to. 

Take, for example, the case of 
a bird well known in this country 
— the pigeon. Most people with 
any interest in bird life have 
heard of the so-called "pigeon's 
milk ! " but not all are aware that 
thi.-^ consists of a secretion whicli 

the old bird injects 
into the youngster's 
throat, after thrusting 
her bill into its mouth. 
Among cormorants 
and shag we get the 
reverse proceeding, as 
with these birds it is 
the baby which pushes 
its bill as far down the 
parent's gullet as its 
outstretched wings will 
permit, and obtains in 
this manner the (to 
it) dainty morsels of 
half-macerated fisli 
which the old bird has 
recently eaten. Our 
illustration depicts a 
young shag in the very 





act of dining, while around the epicurean 
youngster are grouped anxiously expectant 
brothers and sisters (in expression curiously 
like a popular comedian) awaiting their turn. 
These infant birds are certainly among 
the most grotesque to be found, devoid 
as they are of any pretence of downy 
covering, and with skin 
of a kind of purple- 
black hue. 

The pelican is an- 
other bird which feeds 
its young from its own 
dinner, and does not, 
as is so often depicted in 
ecclesiastical herald ry , 
revivify its offspring 
with blood from its 
own breast. Opening 
wide its mouth, it 
lets the youngsters 
take their fill of fish 
from its enormous 

At first, of course, 
bird babies, like the 
human variety, are en- 
tirely confined to the 
house; but after a 
short time they will occasionally venture out 
of the nest to meet their parents bringing in 
food, and this is especially the case with 
those species whose house is on the ground. 

Another of our illustrations portrays one of 
the most interesting birds known to science— 
the hoatzin. Indigenous to South America, 
this precocious youngster has made itself 

Photo by"] 


famous by the arboreal feats w^hich it per- 
forms while yet at a very tender age. On 
the " thumb " and " forefinger " of the young 
hoatzin's wing appear tiny claws ; and armed 
with these, the little creature crawls out of 
its nest and clambers about the boughs of 
trees, using them as hands, by means of 
which it hooks itself 
along. The progress, 
indeed, exactly corre- 
sponds to the early 
pedestrian efforts of 
the human baby, whose 
first perambulations are 
made with the assist- 
ance of friendly chairs 
and other furniture. 
These little claws of 
the hoatzin are only 
used in infancy, 
dropping off as soon as 
the power of flight has 
been attained . The 
chief interest of the 
species, however, at- 
taches to the fact that 
it is one of the most 
primitive forms of bird 
now in existence, and 
affords an important link with the ancestry 
of the fowl of to-day. Originally, as is 
generally known, birds were evolved from 
the lizard family, and the hoatzin forms 
a comparatively early step in the pro- 
gression from reptile to bird. Even when 
its wings are full grown, so imperfect 
are they that no upward soaring can be 

[C. Reid,Wishaw. 


Two photographs hy Cfiarles Reid, Wishaw. 



Photo hy} 

[C. Reid, Wishaw. 


negotiated, and their only use is in making 
short flights from a higher to a lower branch, 
while the ease with which the hoatzin climbs 
affords another indication of its proximity 
to the lizard tribe. Before leaving the 
subject, it may be remarked that claws such 
as those mentioned are found in many birds 
before hatching, but that the hoatzin's is the 
only case in which they afford any practical 

The look of discomfort, combined with 
some temper, w^hich is depicted on the 
countenance of the baby heron possibly 
emphasises his hkeness to an Indian chief- 
tain, suggested in the first instance by the 
peculiar white feathers of the top-knot. 
Perhaps his troubled face results from the 

natural discomfort of his surroundings, for, 
half-grown, young, newly hatched nestlings 
and eggs are often to be found in one and 
the same nest ; and eggs, however warm 
they may be, must be uncomfortable bed- 
fellows. Certainly the nestling heron looks 
a quaint and somewhat pathetic picture as 
he sits there almost lost amid the huge 
structure of sticks which forms his home. 

The pure white down which encases young 
eagles and falcons gives to their heads a 
quite venerable appearance. Indeed, so 
much is this the case that, sitting on the 
edge of rock, the nestling peregrine reminds 
one forcibly of the pictures one sees of 
St. Simeon Stylites seated on his pillar. 

Young owlets, on the other hand, first 

Photo by"} 


[C Reid, Wishaw. 






Photo by C. Eeid, Wishaw. 

cousins to the peregrine though thej be, 
have an air of being well groomed and 
cared for. So completely are they wrapped 
up that the white owlets look very like large, 
round powder-pufiFs, and are quite without 
the old-fashioned and scraggy appearance of 
their relations. But for all their soft looks, 
they are plucky and pugnacious youngsters, 
and an incautious hand inserted into their 
gloomy retreat will call forth a chorus of 
threatening hisses, bill - snappings, and 
peculiar snoring noises. Moreover, if they 
can bark, they are not without a companion 
bite, and the in- 
truder who has the 
temerity to insist 
after such a recep- 
tion will frequently 
be met by the little 
ones turning on 
their backs and 
fighting thus for 
dear life with their 
long, sharp claws. 

It is not all bird 
babies, however, 
who have such w^ar- 
like dispositions, 
and the young of 
those parents who 
are themselves of 
a timid nature, or 
unable personally 
to protect their 
offspring from 
marauders, fre- 
quently adopt very 
different tactics. 
Their plumage is, 
in many cases, 
so beautifully 

adapted to the surrounding vegetation, earth, 
or stones, as to be practically indiscernible so 
long as the chick remains still. Indeed, the 
aviary is able to afPord examples of protective 
resemblance at least as perfect as that 
demonstrated by beast or fisli. Hereditary 
instinct it is which teaches the baby that this 
protective coloration is its best safeguard, 
and it is not slow to put its advantage into 

The example of this chosen for illustration 
is the case of the stone curlew. The tiny 
chick, just emerged from its shell, will, at the 


PJwto by C. Reid, Wishaw. 



Photo lyy] 

from others on the 

approach of some 
real or supposed 
danger, flatten its 
little, sand-coloured 
body against the 
sandy ground, 
stretch out its neck 
to the fullest extent, 
and lie there 
motionless and al- 
most indistinguish- 
able from the stones 
around it, until all 
sign of danger is 
past. Unless, in 
fact, he chances to 
catch sight of the 
beady, yellow eye, 
the man will be a 
keen observer in- 
deed who detects 
anything different 
in that little heap 
surrounding waste. 

In all Nature there is, perhaps nothing 
more wonderful than these instinctive 
promptings which seem in animals to do so 
much to make up for their want of reasoning 
powers. In the case of the bird babies of 
which we have been speaking, it is their 
whole life. This it is which prompts the 
mothers to sit on the eggs till the tiny mites 
emerge from them, and this it is which 
prompts tliese same mothers to go in search 
of food for their young. 

The very confined situations and cramped 
quarters in which some baby birds spend 
their early days are very remarkable. The 
six young blue-tits fill up their nest-hole 
fairly well, but six is much below the 
average for these prolific little birds. Where 
are the others of the family ? Perhaps being 
sat upon by their brothers and sisters, and 
out of sight. Eight, ten, and even twelve is 
not an unusual number. 

Even six young birds blessed with insati- 
able appetites keep both parents busy from 
" early morn to dewy eve " collecting grubs 
and caterpillars ; for the young of the 
majority of birds are fed in infancy on insect 
food ; even the seed-eating birds are no 
exception, and the sparrow may claim to be 
a useful member of society while rearing its 
family, inasmuch as at that time — and it 
must be remembered that the sparrow rears 
a good many broods in the year — it feeds its 
young on grubs. 

It is perfectly astonishing to see the 
rapidity with which small birds, warblers and 

[C. Meid, Wis haw. 

SPOTTED fly-catciii:rs. 

others, will collect a beakful of insects for 
their yor. ng broods, and the amount of such 
food the ever-hungry nestlings will devour. 
The result is shown in their extraordinary 
rate of growth and rapid development. 

Young chaffinches and hawfinches are 
curiously hairy when in the nest, and present 
a very extraordinary appearance before they 
don their first feather suits. 

Flight is a perfectly natural gift to birds ; 
they require no lessons from their parents, 
but as soon as their wing feathers are 
sufficiently grown they fly as a matter of 

The young of the raptores certainly want 
practice, not in flight, but in dexterity and 
quickness in turning, to enable them to catch 
their prey ; and the young of this class of 
birds are accordingly accompanied by their 
parents after they leave the nest until they 
have acquired this dexterity. The young of 
the insectivorous birds are earlier able to get 
their own hving, and therefore this parental 
care is not so much needed. 

And so at length comes the time, like that 
in the mortal household, when the youngsters 
must make their own way in the world. 
Until at last those birds which, on the ap- 
proach of winter, must exchange the land of 
their birth for summer shores, set out on their 
long voyage ; and, most wonderful of all, in 
making their first flight across the trackless 
ocean, it is not the tried fathers of families 
who lead the van in this migration, but the 
inexperienced youngsters who first set out, 
frequently preceding their parents by many 



SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS.— The story opened in the schoolhouse of Lowran. The Ploughing; 
Match Day had been a holiday since the beginning of time ; but Donald Gracie, the schoolmaster, had on this 
occasion denied the request of his scholars. A riot provoked the Dominie into striking the biggest youth in the 
school, Muckle Sandy, who retorted by knocking the schoolmaster down. Dora Gracie, the schoolmaster's daughter, 
with the aid of "Strong Mac," one of the bigger boys, proceeded to teach the school. The Dominie himself 
comes of distinguished stock, but has fallen on evil days through his fatal craving for drink. Strong Mac wins 
the " Single-handed " cup in the ploughing match. Charlotte Webster, in love with Strong Mac, is alarmed lest 
in her pique at his preference for Adora Gracie she has betrayed him as a poacher into the hands of the Laird's 
gamekeepers. The real fact, however, was that an incriminating pheasant in Mac's bag had been taken from his 
shoulders by a boyish devotee of Mac's, known as Daid the Deil, who was wounded by a shot from the keeper's 
gun, Strong Mac himself being released as blameless. The injury to the boy fired Sharon McCuUoch, the father 
of Mac, a dour enemy of the great landlord from reasons of ancient wrong, to establish afresh a right of way 
"to kirk and market" through recently locked gates on the Laird's estate. Further developments showed the 
repulse of the Laird's attentions by Adora, and the revealing to the former that Strong Mac is probably his more 
favoured rival. Jock Fairies and Sandy Ewan are also suitors to Adora, and Sandy Ewan plots with one Crob 
McRobb to have Mac accused of sheep-stealing; and as Mac and Adora loiter homewards from a party, Mac is 
arrested. While Mac is awaiting trial, Sandy Ewan renews his suit to Adora ; and when again rejected, vows to be 
revenged. On the day of the annual Prcsbyterial Examination, he plies the weak Dominie with drink, so that the 
Members of the Presbytery are kept waiting, and eventually defied by the drunken old man, who is thereupon 
dismissed from his post and left homeless and disgraced. Unexpectedly set free by the Lord Advocate's decision, 
Strong Mac learns from Sidney Latimer of what has befallen Adora and her father, and soon afterwards the 
murdered body of Sandy Ewan is found by the roadside ; and while he halts between a suspicion that Mac is guilty 
and the desire to spare the lover of Adora, the young Laird of Lowran is himself attacked and kidnapped, and jNLic 
and his father are arrested for his supposed assassination. Subsequent events illustrated the homelessness of Adora 
and her disgraced parent until taken care of by the old maid Aline McQuhirr, and the devotion to Mac of the boy 
Daid the Deil, who returns from a mysterious absence, maimed by the cutting out of his tongue. The boy 
presently recovers sufficiently to warn Adora in writing that " Laird Latimer is no deid. They pressed him 
for a man to fecht on the King's ships, thinking he was some ither body. But he got aff, and has gone to 
fecht Bony, because ye wadna hae him — the truth as sure as daith. — David McRorb." And Adora decides that 
she must go herself to Spain — to the armies. It is the sole means of preserving the McCullochs, and of preventing 
Sidney Latimer from being the cause, through his own sullen tempers, of the death of two innocent men. 



TTl HAT long serrated line of indigo blue, 
I flecked with touches of remote white, 
was the coast of Spain. Adora looked 
at it with a heart that struggled to be brave. 
She had done this for what — for whom ? 
The little household gods of the schoolhouse, 
hitherto stored in Cairn Edward, had passed 
into the possession of others that she might 
come hither. She had left her father a burden 
on Aline. An additional loan (Adora thought 
of it with shame) had been obtained from 
the farmer of Gairie through Aline's media- 
tion. All these things weighed on the heart 
of the young girl beyond even the thought 
of the strange country and the warring un- 
known peoples among whom she was soon 
to find herself. 

On Adam McQuhirr's part there had been 
great willingness to lend, even to give, with 
the sole stipulation that his wife should not 
be told of his generosity. 

* Copyright, 1908, by S. U. Crockett, in the United 
States of America. 


" It wasna her that brocht the siller into 
the hoose, and it winna hurt her no to ken 
how it gangs oot ! " was Adam's view of the 

But his kindness had gone further. Most 
opportunely he remembered that when a 
laddie he had "shorn on the next rig" along 
with a callant who had afterwards taken to 
the sea. " And they tells me," he added, 
" that he's up to the neck in the Portugal 
traffic. It's maistly the Oporto wine, ye 
ken, that the Government are sae keen to hae 
fowk drink nowadays ; and, fegs! if there's 
a drappie gaun, Ebie Sinclair is fell sure to 
be in the thick o't ! " 

So after many backs and f orths of letter- 
writing unkindly to the farmer's stiff fingers, 
Adam McQuhirr had set Adora on board 
Captain Ebenezer Sinclair's shfp at Port 
Glasgow. As it happened, he had business 
at Falkirk — a debt to collect, as he asserted, 
for " some twal' score o' as guid hoggets as 
ever gaed to tryst or market. And 'gin the 
man be na at Falkirk on the Monday, he is 
sure to be i' the Grassmarket o' Edinburgh 
on the Wednesday ! " 




At any rate, it was obviously an easy thing 
for Adam to see Adora on board the Fortune's 
Queen as she lay off Port Ghisgow, ready to 
spread her wings for flight, along with other 
twenty sail, escorted by three of His Majesty's 
war-frigates as a convoy, and their destina- 
tion, as at present announced, the mouth of 
the Tagns. 

Ebenezer Sinclair proved to be a gruff, 
bearded man whose vocabulary of Galloway 
Scots had taken on no other sea-change 
except a slight flavour of the Tail of the 
Bank. He received Adora without en- 
thusiasm — indeed, with a certain daunting 

" Ye are a daft lassie," he said, glowering 
at her under his eyebrows, " to gang sae far 
for ony man, and into siccan a country. But 
— I kenned your faither afore ye ; and ony- 
thing that Captain Ebenezer Sinclair can do 
for ye shall no be found wan tin'." 

Once on deck, he called Adora to him, as 
he stood conning the ship down the narrow 
muddy river,, and in the interval of pro- 
claiming Anathema Maranatha upon all 
sailormen, he gave her sundry counsels of 

" I'm a rough man, lassie," he said. " Ye 
will often hae to excuse my ill-scrapit tongue ; 
but, ye see, thae waistrils gathered off the 
seeven seas wadna understand ony ither kind 
o' talk. But it will be as weel for ye to say, 
'gin onybody speers, that Ebenezer Sinclair, 
o' Port Glasgow, is your uncle, and that as 
ye are on his business, he will answer ony 
questions that folk hae to ask. An' when 
ye win to the airmy, hand nae talk wi' this 
yin or that, neither wd' sergeants' cane nor 
cockit hat, but gang straight to my Lord 
Wellington himsel' . An' when ye meet on 
wi' him, says you to him : ' My lord, I am a 
decent Scots lass, the niece o' Captain 
Ebenezer Sinclair, o' Port Glasgow, that has 
dune an obleegement or tw^a for your liOrd- 
ship in his time, and naething said aboot 
it.' Dinna be feared o' his crooked neb 
an' his grand ways. Hand till him, and aye 
keep mindin' him o' your Uncle Ebenezer. 
Then oot wd' your askin', lassie — an' the 
Lord be mercifu' to ye ! For me, I wuss I 
had been a younger man, to hae a lass come 
that far for the sake o' me. No but what I 
hae seen the day — aye, and let it slip awa' 
frae me like a slack-handed villain ! And 
noo I am ower auld for ony young thing to 
gang to the doorstep for the sake o' my auld 
cankered veesage, wrinkled and wizened up 
like a year-auld tawtie ! " 

So, as Adora stood on the deck of the 

Fortunes Queen, of Port Glasgow, it was as 
niece of the captain and owner of that stout 
brig that she made her passage. She had a 
Spanish grammar and dictionary constantly 
in her hand, and she laboured hard at the 
language, enlarging the scanty vocabulary 
which Sliaron McCulloch had taught her 
during those summer evenings, in the 
intervals of his tales of the old-time Free 
Trade, and his explanation of the nicks on 
the handle of the Leonese knife. 

Besides the master, there were two young 
officers on board, the first and second mates, 
both hailing " oot o' the Clyde." John White, 
the first mate, w^as a tall blonde son of Anak, 
with a sort of gentle perspiration always 
breaking over him, which, as a matter of 
course, caused the crew to dub him Sweatin' 
Jock. The other, Edgar Hillowton, was 
a stoutish, thick-set little man, with a 
tremendous voice, and a fist like the Day of 
Judgment. So that if the crew had any 
nickname for him, they confined it strictly 
to the forecastle. 

A well-found ship was the Foriune's Queen. 
There was no lack of sound viand or excellent 
water on board, nor was the " auld man " at 
all stingy with a drop of grog upon occasion. 
But it was a working ship. If any A.B. 
did not do the wdiole duty of man aboard 
ship, he heard about it unto demonstration, 
and the next time was apt to do it on the run. 

Adora thought it was beautiful to see the 
fine swift war-frigates working the convoy 
like shepherds' dogs, bringing up the laggards, 
restraining the clean-heeled, and, as often as 
a clump of sails sliowed suspect above the 
horizon, forming up for defence, the black 
muzzles of the guns showing at the port- 
holes, ready to fight to the death for the 
commerce committed to them. Verily, as 
our great enemy said in 1813, we were a 
nation of shopkeepers — only the shopkeepers 
could fight and did fight for their shops, and, 
above all, for the right of the highway of 
the sea upon which to bring home their wares. 

The coast of Spain was steel-grey and 
ragged in the distance, when there shot out 
towards the convoy a swift Basque schooner, 
crusted to the masthead with the salt Biscay 
spray. The three British frigates instantly 
closed in. There ensued a going and coming 
of messages, hot consultations, and in an 
hour the direction of the wdiole convoy was 
changed. San Sebastian had been taken 
W'ith infinite fury and shame. The port of 
Bilbao was in British hands, and my Lord 
Wellington was calling up every soldier and 
every pound of provend and ounce of 



amiimuition for his dasli across the Pyrenees 
into France. 

Among others, the Forltme\i Queen received 
orders to cross the bar of the Nervion, and 
disload her cargo at the quays of the port of 

Through the white breaking surf the ship 
of Captain Ebenezer Sinclair took her way 
to her new destination. The narrow Nervion, 
with the straight quays of Bilbao on either 
side, seemed, after the leaping surges of 
Biscay, no more than an ugly ditch. 

But on the other hand, and rising tier 
above tier up the hillside, Adora saw the 
white houses of the town of many sieges, 
and the wooded heights that stand about it. 
She heard the speech of the chill disdainful 
Basque folk, proud of thekfueros and their 
unknown ancient descent. Mixed with them 
were the soldiers of a dozen nationalities — • 
British, Spanish, Portuguese, Brazilians, 
Hanoverians, Swiss. A clamour of voices, 
a swarm of men, not a woman to be seen 
anywhere. Such was Adora's first impression 
of Spain from the ship's deck. 

The captain of the Fortune's Queen was 
abundantly fitted to hold liis own in such a 
scene. Never had the virtues of Galvvegian 
vocabulary added to the powers of vitupera- 
tion acquired along the water-front of fifty 
ports stood the stout mariner in better stead. 
He sent Adora down to his cabin and saw to 
the closing of the portholes. Then he went 
on deck and expressed his opinions with a 
sober joyous freedom. 

"It'sasweelMr. McPhail, o' St. Cuthbert's, 
disna hear me, or I wad hae sma' chance o' 
the next eldership when I get hame," he 
confided to Jock White, his first mate, who 
stood by his side with a pistol in each pocket. 
" But, faith ! this is nae place to be askin' a 
blessin' afore meat in ! The strong hand, 
the primed pistol, and the braid aith — them's 
the jockies that will bring ye safe hame to 
your wife and sma' family. An' after that, 
ye can gang to the kirk three times ilka 
Sabbath to square the account, 'gin it happens 
that your conscience checks ye." 

And it is to be feared that in 1818, these 
were largely the moral principles of the Scot 
abroad. They have altered since, of course. 

Now, Captain Ebenezer was a stout and 
valiant sailor, and he had kept the type of 
his farming stock intact through years of 
sea-spray and wind-tan. Also his heart, un- 
known to itself, had grown warm for his girl 
passenger. He knew the peril of her journey, 
the wild places into which she must venture, 
and in especial he heard with terror and 

shame the unspeakable details of the sack of 
San Sebastian, the deepest disgrace with which 
the British Army has ever been attainted. 
Small wonder, then, that he feared for Adora, 
and he resolved that he, a countryman and a 
bachelor, without a soul to mourn for him, 
or the bond of tie domestic, should under- 
take the girl's task while she remained by 
the vessel, or if that could not content her, 
he would accompany Adora on her quest. 

The next evening after supper he opened 
out his plan. 

" Lassie," he said, " I am an auld carle, 
but like an aik tree in the plan tin', gye an' 
sturdy aboot the girth. I will never tak 
ony maiden's e'e for my beauty, though 
some that I ken o' micht do waur than draw 
up wi' the auld sailoi-man, into a snug bit 
anchorage wi' white stanes aboot the door, 
and gravelled walks, and maybe a painted 
figurehead or twa set up aneath the flagstaff. 
But, lassie, that's neither here nor there ; 
an' we'll e'en let that flee stick to the waa' ! " 

The captain of the Fortune's Queen rested 
his eyes a moment or two a little sadly on 
Adora, who sat with her slender pocket-book 
open before her. The captain had been 
changing ten of her scant store of English 
guineas into Spanish dollars, which now sat 
squatly before her in a canvas bag. Certainly 
Ebenezer Sinclair, of the good ship Fortune's 
Queen, had not made money by the exchange. 

" Aweel, lassie," he continued, seeing she 
did not answer, " we'll say nae mair aboot 
that. Auld Captain Ebenezer made his bed 
lang syne, and noo them that he wad tak 
winna hae him, and them that wad tak him 
he wad 11 a hae at a bargain. But, lassie, ye 
can look m the glass, and if ever on your 
travels ye come across ony body tliat micht 
pass for your born sister, you juist send 
word to the auld captain, and legs ! P]benezer 
Sinclair will brush himsel' up, and pit on his 
Sunday coat, an' syne aff to try his luck ! " 

Adora smiled, but still said nothing. 
There was a little pile of dollars laid in a 
place by themselves, which seemed to belong 
to nobody. These were the covenanted 
pieces for Adora's passage-money, presently 
in dispute between them. 

" Na, na," said the captain ; " na, na, lass. 
Your bite and your sup are neither here nor 
there. And faith ! if ye count a' the repairs 
ye hae made in my wardrobe — no to giQ the 
thing a mair intimate name — faith ! Fm 
thinkin' the balance micht well be on the 
ither side ! When I cam frae the Tail o' 
the Baidc, I declare I had never a hale clout 
to sit me doon on ; and now I micht dance 



the tieelaiit fling afore the Queen lierser — 
God bless her ! — and never be shamed. 
Siller, na faith ! If there's ony siller gaiigin', 
it's Captain Ebenezer Sinclair that will hae 
to pay the piper." 

" But, captain," said Adora, with genuine 
distress in her voice, "it was agreed between 
us. Mr. McQuhirr, of the Gairie, told me 
himself that the charge for my passage was 
exceedingly reasonable ; and, indeed, take it 
you must." 

And she pushed the little pile of pieces 
towards the old sailor* who looked at the 
dollars as if each might be expected to bite. 
Then he shook his head still more em- 

" Na, na, lassockie," he said. " Captain 
Ebenezer has no come to that o't yet, that 
he wad tak the hard-won siller o' a Lowran 
lass, who hae coined to a foreign land to 
save a lad frae the wuddy (gallows). And 
mair nor that, hearken you to me, mistress, 
ye are gangin' to nae misleared airmy by 
yoursel' — Captain Ebenezer Sinclair couldna 
sleep sound in his bunk for thinkin' o't. 
The ship is braw and safe wi' Sweatin' Jock 
White there and Lang-airmed Hillowton to 
look after her, no to speak o' thae deevils o' 
artillerymen up there on the hillside, wi' 
their pieces primed to the muzzle. Na, na ! 
Gallowa' is Gallowa' ; and it shall never 
be said that a Gallowa' man let a Gallowa' 
lass gang her lane into sic a deil's byke o' 
wickedness as the camp o' the allied armies. 
Guid's truth, no ! " 

And though Adora strove valiantly to 
carry out alone what she had imagined 
alone, the sturdy sober determination of the 
veteran was too much for her. And when 
she left the gate of Bilbao with a pass from 
the Governor, the stout sailor-like figure of 
Captain Ebenezer Sinclair marched at the 
right hand of her mule. 

In vain in that land of cavaliers had she 
besought him to ride also. 

" It's no for me at my time o' life to be 
temptin' Providence on ony beast's riggin' ! " 
was all his answer. And so he trudged 
along stoutly, with a complete pirate's arma- 
ment at his ])elt, entirely careless of the 
amusement the convoy caused to the entire 
o^arrison of Bilbao. 


enemy's country. 

Luckily for the little cavalcade which went 
forth from the gate of Bilbao, on the side 

which looks along the hill-foreheads towards 
Sin Sebastian, they came across many parties 
taking their way north-eastward with stores 
for the troops, arms and armament for head- 
quarters. Among these were several trans- 
port officers who had been long in Spain 
and who knew Captain Ebenezer well. To 
them the master of ships frankly explained 

" Noo, hearken," he said, " ye ken Eben 
Sinclair frae Gallowa' ; or if ye dinna, it's 
time ye did. His word is as guid as his 
aith, though whiles no juist sae convincing 
amang sailorfolk. Weel, here is Eben cut 
adrift frae his ship and wa' a bonny bit craft 
in tow. Noo, it's nae use speakin' to thae 
haythen folk. Them I'll shoot at the first 
word, 'gin yin o' them meddles the lass. 
But as for you, ye are bauld birkies and 
understand a guid Scots tongue. Noo, the 
lass is no for you, nor for your like. She's 
my ain sister's dochter, 'gin it behoves ye 
to ken, and she is gaun to find a certain 
Captain Sidney Latimer, that was last heard 
o' here in the King's airmies. So her and 
me are gangin' to my Lord Wellington to 
get news o' the lad. And if ony man, be he 
French or English, Scot, Irisher or black 
Don Dumbolino, sets a finger on the lass 
that's kin to Ebenezer Sinclair, he will find 
himsel' shot oot o' hand, and then if he's no 
deid, my friend wa' the crookit nose will 
forthwith order him to be hanged for a 
warn in' to a' blackguards ! That's a' ! " 

The headquarters of Lord Wellington's 
armies was presently at the village of Estella, 
a tumble of white houses with rickety green 
sun-shutters, streets of alternate mud and 
ankle-deep dust, white as flour, a village 
that scrambled and struggled up a grey hill- 
side in the heart of the Pyrenees. By its 
position Estella forms a natural sti'onghold, 
and all war commanders have striven for its 
possession, from the earliest guerillas who 
withstood the Roman arms, to the last 
Carlists who tried hard to put life into the 
bleaching bones of a dead cause. 

But Estella was many long leagues across 
the mountains, the way thither perilous with 
desperate unfed men, who cared not in what 
way, or from whose military train, their 
bellies were filled. 

The last months of Wellington's sojourn 
in Spain were marked by the growing 
brigandage of the country populations, and 
by the stern methods of oppression whicli in 
turn caused the Spaniards of the north-west 

" On board the Fortune'.i Queen,' 



to bate the British troops more bitterly than 
the French themselves. 

Nor was this wholly the fault of the 
Spaniards. From the first they had lacked 
generals — and, indeed, officers of any rank — 
in whom they could have confidence. Their 
large armies never had any commissariat 
worthy of the name. Their troops in the 
field were never fed save by partaking with 
British soldiers, never paid except out of the 
British army chests ; above all, if they were 
caught plundering while near the provost- 
marshals of "El GrAn' Lor','' they were 
promptly and remorselessly hanged. 

Moreover, it was no wonder if the sack of 
San Sebastian rankled in the hearts of such 
men, and if, hungry and desperate, with 
winter closing in upon them, these starving 
bands flung themselves fiercely upon Wel- 
lington's rear, and cut off his details and 
provision-trains as if he had been in an • 
enemy's country. 

Towards evening on the third day after 
leaving Bilbao, the small convoy of fourteen 
mules, with an equal number of muleteers, 
the four British transport officers, and our 
two voyagers arrived at the little hill village 
of Hernani. Indeed, ifc was hardly a village 
— a " farm-town " rather, as they would say 
in Scotland, which denotes a large farmhouse 
with outbuildings. Yet Hernani was almost 
like a fortress, its walls loopholed and ready 
for defence, the cluster of huts for herdsmen 
and labourers w^ell away from the main 
buildings, while at the end of the little 
street w^as a veiita, or public-house of the 
commonest sort, the immemorial haunt of 
brigands and broken men of all sorts. 

No caution was used by the four British 
officers— all of them sergeants of com- 
missariat, except one warrant-officer on loan 
from a frigate. They cared nothing for the 
muleteers, speaking to them as to so many 
dogs, and treating their silent resentment as 
so much sulkiness to be exorcised with blows 
and curses. 

The chamber of their first lodging at 
Hernani was the common room of the venta. 
But the British sergeants, loudly swearing 
that the place was not good enough for an 
English dog-kennel (which was true enough), 
made bold to demand quarters of tlie owner 
of the farm, Don Juan Hernani, recently 
returned to his patiimony after a prolonged 
expulsion during the French occupation. 

The night was already falling rapidly, and 
at these altitudes the cold began to bite 
keenly. The sergeants hammered on the 
door with the butts of their guns and 

shouted impatiently for the inmates to open. 
At last, with infinite creaking of bolts and 
jingling of chains, the great door was opened, 
and a tall stoop-shouldered old man stood 
before them, a lantern in his hand. 

" What might it happen to your honours 
to require at tihe door of this poor house ? " 
said the man, with the utmost formal 

The four sergeants were about to brush 
past him with a rough word, after the 
manner of their kind. But Adora, who had 
not forgotten certain lessons in Spanish 
character which the ex-smuggler Sharon 
McCulloch had given her along with tbe 
Leonese knife, went forward and, taking tlie 
old man's hand, kissed it, saying in her pretty 
broken child's Spanish: "We ask only your 
hospitality for the night." 
■ The old man instantly took his lantern 
in the other hand and oft'ered his arm to 

"Your Ladyship's house is at your service," 
he said. " Permit an old man to attend you 
to your chamber ! " 

So it came about that for that night Adora 
was lodged as a grandee of the first class, 
while in the wide kitchen or house-place, 
the three sergeants, the warrant-officer, and 
Captain Ebenezer w^aited upon themselves. 
Don Juan Hernani occupied only tw^o or ^ 
three rooms of his large house. The rest 
had been completely gutted by the attentions 
of its last occupants, the soldiers of the 
Duke of Dalmatia. But nevertheless, the 
old Spaniard proved himself an epicure after 
his kind. His herdsmen had brought him 
game from the hills in celebration of his 
return, and he prepared and cooked it in 
little casseroles in a tiny kitchen attached to 
the larger sitting-room by a short passage. 
As he finished the preparation of each dish, 
he would transfer all the choicest portions to 
Adora's plate, putting up himself with a 
crust of bread soaked in gravy, and sending 
all the rest down to his guests in the kitchen. 
Adora and her friend Captain Ebenezer 
did their best to mediate between the 
sensitive exigencies of Spanish poUfesse and 
the rough-and-tumble of soldiers, whom 
years of campaigning had accustomed to 
take the gifts of the gods without either 
" Prithee " or " l^y your leave." 

Meanwliile tliere were the fourteen mule- 
teers. All day long they liad been taking 
words and blows with a dangerous quietude. 
It now occurred to one of "the Englishmen 
that they had better see how the Spaniards 
were spending their time. 



" The brutes will get drank, ten to one ! " 
said Sergeant Taddy, who hailed from the 
leafy lanes and brambly hedges of Essex, 
where such methods of spending the evening 
are not uncommon. "Anyway, they will 
never be I'eady for the morning work unless 
we stir them up a bit. A little kicking 
never does a Don any harm ! " 

It was by such methods that the British 
soldier in Spain has left a name and fame 
most unsavoury in the country he delivered; 
so that to-day the general sympathy is more' 
with the Frenchman, who oppressed and en- 
slaved, than with the Briton, who shed his 
blood to deliver. Which thing shows the 
advantage of personal good manners even in 

Now, Ebenezer Sinclair, like a cautious old 
ship's captain, had insisted upon arrival that 
the ammunition and valuable lading of the 
mules should be placed within the farm- 
buildings of Hernani, and, therefore, out of 
reach of the muleteers and their alhes — with- 
out, that is, passing through the house of 
Don Juan, or breaking down the strongly 
barred gate of the alqtcerm. It was to this 
thoughtful naval prevision that the party 
now owed its safety. For hardly had 
Sergeant Taddy and his friend Warrant- 
officer Oswald passed outside the door than 
a bullet whistled from the direction of the 
venta and flattened itself on the carved work 
of the lintel close to his ear. 

" Back into cover ! " cried the sergeant. 
" To your muskets, boys ! There's fun 
forward ! " 

For though they were ready enough to 
plunder when they had the chance, as well as 
prone to abuse the Spaniards for " bally- 
banded scaramouches," these soldiers of the 
great Peninsular commander were never so 
well pleased as when there was prospect of 
a fight. 

" Can you load muskets ? " they asked 
Adora, when they were back again in the 

" No ; but I can teach her 1 " answered 
Captain Ebenezer promptly before the girl 
had time to speak. 

" Well, go ahead, then, captain ; there are 
plenty in that rack over the mantelpiece. 
And keep an eye on the old Don," said 
Sergeant Taddy. "Blow out his brains 
if he tries any of his Dago tricks on true- 
born Britons ! " 

But Don Juan Hernani wont calmly about 
the washing up of his dishes, doing it 
iinically, rubbing the plates, breathing on 
and polishing the glasses, even examining 

them critically with one eye closed, and so 
on till he was satisfied. 

Stray shots went off without. There were 
loud cries and shrill screams. The English- 
men looked at one another a little grimly 
and sniffed the burnt powder. 

" I think if tliese are only our muleteers," 
said Taddy to the warrant-officer, Oswald, 
" the business will not be a long one." 

" If, by the grace of God, my particular 
rascal has come to try and steal my saddle- 
bags, which are the property of His Majesty's 
Government," cried Sergeant Taddy, " I 
shall have great pleasure in putting a bullet 
through him ! I never saw a face and figure 
better fitted for being set up between a wall 
and a firing-party." 

The cries took on more distinctness. The 
shouters seemed to be quite near the doors 
of the alqveria. 

" San Sebastian ! " " Come out and die, 
robbers and murderers ! " " Dogs of Eng- 
lish ! Remember San Sebastian and come 
out ! " 

"That we will ! " said Sergeant Taddy, 
priming his musket. His pair of pistols lay 
ready on the table before him. " If you 
refuse a Spaniard's invitation, he knifes you, 
so they say. If you accept, you die of the 
grub he gives you." 

" See here," said Oswald, the warrant- 
officer, to Captain Ebenezer, "none of us can 
speak their beastly lingo. Just you ask the 
old fellow over there which is the w^ay to a 
window or a balcony that will overlook his 
front door, will you ? Tell him he is to 
come himself — to go in front, too. And by 
Heaven ! if he gives us away — well, there 
will be a good Government pistol within two 
inches of his ear ! " 

All this while, Don Juan was calmly pro- 
ceeding W'ith his after-dinner work of w^asliing 
up. Adora and the captain w^ent to him 
together, and then, by pooling their scanty 
store of Spanish, finally made him understand 
the request of the four English soldiers. 

"Tliese outside there are but sons of 
dogs !" he said, jerking his elbow towards the 
door ; " they will not venture here. They 
know Don Juan Hernani ! " 

"That may be," said Captain Ebenezer 
in English ; " but these four gentlemen in 
the kitchen are somewhat hasty in their 
manner. You see, Sefior Don, they are in 
charge of a considerable amount of military 
stores, and if they lose so much as a musket 
or a pound of powder, it will be the worse 
for them ! " 

"The worse for some other folk first!" 



growled tlie warrant-officer, Oswald, who bad 
come to the door. " Do tell the old cockatoo 
to hurry up. We can't keep these noisy 
donkey-prickers waiting all night ! " 

Adora managed to convey the substance, 
though not the form, of these observations 
to their host, who, hanging his towel oyer 
his arm to give it the benefit of the drying 
night air, led the way up a stone staircase in 
the angle of the wall, 

Adora ascended along with the five men, 
chiefly that she might not be left alone in 
the great empty salm. In a few minutes 
they came out on a stone parapet, roughly 
made by joining two parallel walls together 
with broad flag stones. The space was about 
four feet wide, and ran along the whole 
length of the front of the square of buildings 
constituting the alqueria of Hernani. 

" Don't let the rascals glimpse us ! " 
whispered the w^arrant- officer. "I claim 
first pot-shot.'' 

But the old Don was already some way 
along the battlements, his white hair flying 
in the wind. In the dim light of the pine 
knots and pitch torches that had been lighted 
below, they could see twenty or thirty men 
trying to force the great door which led into 
the arcaded courtyard where the mule-loads 
had been placed. 

The old Spaniard ran towards them along 
the battlement, waving his towel as if he 
had been chasing flies out of a room. 

"Go away!" he cried in the country 
speech. " Go away quickly. I am Don 
Juan Hernani, and I desire that my guests' 
property should be respected." 

"Come down and help us, Don Juan!" 
they cried up to him. " Your father would 
have helped us. Ay, or your son Don 
Pedro, either, who is with his partida in the 
mountains. These four English are of tlie 
men who sacked San Sebastian. We will do 
the same, and worse, to them. Open the 
doors to us, or we will burn your farmhouse 
about your ears for a traitor and a spy ! " 

" Burn and welcome ! " cried Don Juan, 
with unexpected spirit ; " but while I live 
you shall not steal so much as an ounce of 
salt from the guests of my house of 
Hernani ! " 

A volley of musketry from the English- 
men put a sharp end to the colloquy. They 
had stolen along under cover of the battle- 
ments, and now fired directly down on the 
group who, with a battering-ram made of 
the trunk of a fir tree, were endeavouring 
to burst in the great door. 

" That shook the rascals ! " cried the 

warrant-officer. " Give them another while 
they are on the quake ! Quick, the pistols I 
They are near enough for that ! " 

And leaning over the walls, the four shot 
their pistols point-blank into the cluster of 
struggling men beneath them. Adora could 
see many wounded, who limped away into 
shelter, while others lay on the ground 
motionless. Fierce yells and shouts filled 
the air. This time the noise seemed to come 
from all around the square of the alqueria. 
Also, from the farther end, which was 
sheltered from sight, a red unsteady light 
began to rise, pulsing against the volumes 
of rolling smoke which the breeze carried 
towards them over the dark quadrangle of 

" They have fired the cattle fodder ! " cried 
Don Juan, clasping his hands. " It is all 
that the Frenchmen left. Between English 
thieves, French thieves, and one's own 
countrymen, the sooner a poor old man is 
quiet in the grave, the happier for him ! 
And I have not had time to hide my glass 
and silver, either ! " 

And with that he was hurrying away 
towards the ground floor. 

"Stop him!" cried Sergeant Taddy. "Old 
Gracias-a-Dios is going to open the gates to 
that howling crew. Stop him, or by Heaven, 
sir ! I'll stop him myself as quick as wink, 
with a bullet in the back ! Stop there, I 
say, Seiior Don ! " 

Something in the soldier's tone, even 
more than Adora's warning cry, caused 
Don Juan to turn back in time to prevent 
Sergeant Taddy from carrying out his 

" Captain Sinclair," said the warrant- 
officer, " here are a pair of good Navy 
pistols. They are all we can spare you, but 
you have plenty of muskets and ammunition 
of your own. We leave you here in charge 
of the main door. We must go and examine 
the other side, where the villains are trying 
to fire the buildings. Do not fail to shoot 
anyone who tries to enter there. You see 
the door. If they bother you there, wait 
till they are within a yard of it, and then 
even a sailor can't miss. If you lean far 
enough over, you can put the muzzle to the 
rascal's ear, and have the Papist in purgatory 
in two shakes of a cat's nine tails ! " 

In a few moments the long parapeted 
southern wall of the alqueria was deserted 
save for Adora and Captain Ebenezer, who, 
with his own armoury and the pair of pistols 
which he had confided to Adora, stood 
watching the great gate which the partida of 

'A volley of musketry from the Englishmen put a sharp end to the colloquy.' 



muleteers and brigands had vainly tried to 

Beneath, faintly visible, could be seen the 
pine trunk which had been used as a batter- 
ing-ram. A man was lying behind it as if 
w^ounded. It was very dark, but along the 
ground there lay a mild phosphorescent mist 
which rendered objects faintly visible. In a 
little while it seemed to Captain Sinclair that 
the man behind the tree-trunk had moved. 
He had been quite at the lower end. Now 
he was half-way up and nearer to the door 
by at least a couple of yards. 

"Adora," said tlie old man softly, "is 
that man lying still ? " 

Adora looked intently. Her younger eyes 
could make out details more clearly. 

" He is moving," she answered at last, 
" and he is holding something dark in his 
hand as well." 

"Keep away from the door," shouted 
Captain Ebenezer suddenly, " or I fire ! " 

The man hastily threw something in the 
direction of the great door, and at the same 
moment the captain's piece cracked. The 
man broke into a run towards the woods, 
but presently stumbled and fell on his face. 
The projectile which he had launched at the 
door struck it heavily, rebounded a little, 
and lay between the bottom of the door and 
the tree trunk. From this last a spark of 
light crawled slowly towards it. 

"" That is a slow-match," said the old man ; 
" and I am nothing of a shot, or I could cut 
the line." 

" Give me the musket," said Adora ; " I 
will try. I can see better than you, and the 
distance is not great." 

She aimed in the centre between the dark 
mass of the bomb and the creeping wink of 

She fired once, apparently without result. 
Then she leaned as far over as she dared and 
fired a second musket. The spark crawled 
on for some time, but in the midst, with a 
little bluish jet of flame, suddenly went out. 
Adora had cut the train of the slow-match 
and, for the time being, saved the door from 
being blown in. 

Meantime the light from the distant 
northern front of Hernani loomed up 
brighter, the lurid smoke bellied out, more 
lurid than before, while shoutings and cries 
of pain came to their ears from that 
direction. Ever and anon they could see, 
out against the glare, the figures of the four 
defenders of Hernani as they leaned over 
and fired in defence of their commissariat 

" This is poor work," said Captain 
Ebenezer, setting his musket against the 
wall. " If I had not got my orders, I would 
be over yonder, where at least there's some- 
thing doing." 

But the fire died down. There was less 
and less crackling of musketry. The 
shouting seemed further oflF. Captain 
Ebenezer lit his pipe with a flint and steel, 
crouching meanwhile behind the parapet of 
the roof. Not even Adora's sharp young 
eyes could see a sign of an enemy on their 
side of the alqueria. 

Suddenly from the darkness of the wood 
in front came an astonishing burst of flame, 
against which the entire quadrangle of 
building stood out bright as day. A roar 
deafened their ears, and part of the w\all by 
the gate crumbled and fell forward on the 
abandoned battering-ram and the dead men, 
with a rush of shattered stone and lime. 

" Merciful Heavens ! " cried the captain, 
" all our throats are as good as cut ! They 
have got a cannon somewhere. That is an 
eight-pounder, at the least ! " 

Once more the cannon spoke, and then 
with a rush up came the four valiant 
defenders— the warrant -officer touched in 
the arm by a chance bullet, but having tied 
a handkerchief about the place, making 
nothing more of it. 

" All up," they said, " unless we can find 
some underground place in which to hold 
out till morning. Some of our fellows may 
hear us and turn up. The fools are making 
enough row to be heard twenty miles off ! " 

The gun went off again, the ball striking 
the gate full this time, crashing and splinter- 
ing it into small fragments of wood and 
twisted iron. Still the fear of the growing 
light and of these five inevitable British 
muskets, which they knew were waiting for 
them, held back the partida from making a 
final rush. 

But at the longest it could not last long. 
Men were to be seen creeping nearer under 
cover of trees and bushes, waiting at all the 
angles of the alqueria, and lying thick in the 
ditches below the cattle-sheds. 

Crash! The last fragments of the gate 
were down this time. The brigands renewed 
their loud shouts. 

" San Sebastian ! " " San Sebastian ! " 
" lleatli to the English ! " they cried. 

But at the very moment when they were 
clear of the wood, a storm of bullets from 
behind lashed their rear. They fled this 
way and that, the swift horses of four 
companies of 13ritish cavalry fiercely riding 



them clown. 8words flashed and were dulled 
in the fast-coming dawn. The h'ttle cannon 
was captured, and just as the morning broke 
clear, a young officer rode up to the gateway 
of Hernani. He leaped his horse over the 
debris of the planking and so made his way 
fearlessly into the courtyard of Hernani. 

" What's up here ? '' he cried, for the 
moment seeing no one. 

At the first glance, Adora had precipitated 
herself towards him. She ran down the 
stairs and, Avithout knowing how, found 
herself clasping Sidney Latimer round the 
neck, with the tears streaming from hex eyes. 

"Oh, thank God!" she cried, '"thank 
God — I have found you — in time ! " 

And she was not even conscious that the 
young man, struck to the heart by this 
greatest marvel of earth, had stooped and 
kissed her with the kiss of possession. 



Adora awoke from a brief period of un- 
consciousness to find herself the centre of 
a deeply interested group. She was still in 
Sidney Latimer's arms, and that young man 
seemed to have no intention of letting her 
go. The troopers of '' El Gran' Lor' " tried 
to look uninterested, or grinned broadly — 
according to their upbringing. There was 
even a serene smile of content in the eyes 
of the stout sea-captain. His part was 
played. He had brought this dainty craft 
to port. Eesponsibility was lifted from his 
shoulders. The true pilot had come on board. 

Instantly, with one quitjk nervous motion, 
Adora removed herself out of Sidney 
Latimer's arms ; but she was not comfortable. 
Slowly and surely out of the lifting mists 
there came to her the hot consciousness that 
she had been kissed. Yes, in sight of all 
these men ; this other consciousness also — 
that she had not resented it. Indeed, how 
could she ? And it was too late now, at 
any rate. 

Slie put her hand against Sidney Latimer's 
l)reast, as if to push him from her. 

"No, no, you must not. You do not 
understand," she stammered, the words 
coming pell-mell. " I have much to say to 
you. I have come all this way to find you — 
to tell you " 

The young man's arms went about lier 

"You make me happy," he said. " Ah ! if 
only I had known ! " 

" That is it, that is it ! " she moaned. 
" You do not know. You will not understand, 
and — I cannot speak to you before all these." 

" No, of course you cannot," cried Sidney 
Latimer with joyous alacrity. " How stupid 
I am ! Let us go in. I understand that 
there is a convoy belonging to Lord 
Wellington's army here. General Barnard 
sent me out to seek it — to bring it in. Little 
did I think wiien I started — ah ! how little ! — 
what was waiting for me — seeking me — how 
precious a thing I should bring back ! " 

And he gazed tenderly at Adora, with 
such a face of radiance that the girl was for 
the time being borne away. She let him 
press her hand, saying all the while to 
herself : " This is not the time to speak ! 
This is not the time ! " 

So guess ye how fast the hndt ran about 
the companies, busily unsaddling their horses, 
or gingerly watering them after their long 
ride : how that their captain's sweetheart had 
come all the way to find him— out of Scot- 
land, they said. And they were all glad, for 
the young friend of General Barnard had not 
shared the fate of most military favourites — 
he was liked by his comrades and adored by 
his men. He was rich, too, they said, and a 
girl's hard heart had driven him to the wars. 
Well, most of them could say something 
like that ; but this, at least, was new. 

With the breaking of the day and the 
arrival of the detachment sent to bring in 
the ammunition-convoy, the partidas had 
vanished like blown smoke among the 
mountains. The sun had risen, and only 
the patient mules, the empty venici^ and the 
dead brigands about the cpiadrangle of the 
farm buildings gave evidence of the struggle 
of the night. 

Don Juan Hernani was as calmly courteous 
as if an attack upon his cdqueria with cannon, 
and the arrival of a cavalry relief in the 
dawn, had been e very-day events. 

He had already given directions for the 
transport of the dead men to their homes. 
They were laid out temporarily in the orchard ; 
and as Don Juan looked at each, he took 
his cigarette out of his mouth and crossed 
himself, muttering the while : " God be 
merciful to him ! He belonged to an 
excellent family ! " 

Or, as the case might l)e, and without any 
religious sign, he said aloud : " The devil 
hath gotten a sore bargain this day, for no 
ranker raterillo ever chewed slug behind a 
stone wall than thou, unblessed one ! " 

Meantime Adora and Sidney Latimer have 
been waiting. 



Down in the court was Don Juan, going 
from group to group, deploring that he had 
so Mttle to offer the cavahers of Mj Lord 
WeUington's army. But these accursed 
French— Soul t's men ! His friends the English 
would understand. The thieves had hardly 
left as much as would fodder a mouse over 
the winter in all his barns. Nevertheless, the 
camp fires were lighted, and with a fresh- 
killed lamb from the hills, and old pressed 
wine from some secret vats, untapped by the 
French troopers, the gentlemen cavaliers and 
their companions did none so ill. Indeed, 
they thought tbemsdves in clover after the 
half -rations of the bleak hilltops around 
Estella, where, as the saying Avent, the 
Portuguese dug for pig-nuts, and the Irish 
ate them, all the while cursing their bene- 
factors for dagos because they could not find 
them potatoes. 

Adora knew that a difficult task awaited 
her in the great upper room where she had 
dined in solitary state the night before, with 
the Don fluttering to and fro with his dainty 
cukes and made dishes, while His Britannic 
Majesty's Commissariatsergeahtsf umed below 
over their snail patties and sparrow^s' legs. 
The good captain kept careful watch that the 
first meeting of the lovers should not be 
overlooked nor their privacy broken in upon. 
Strange as it might seem, Adora's eyes 
dropped before the smiling gladness she saw 
in those of Sidney Latimer. Of course, he 
thought what any man would think in the 
circumstances. It seemed a hard thing to 
begin to undeceive him. Yet she must. He 
had kissed her once, and that must be done 
with for ever. Yet what if he were to refuse 
her request — refuse to return to Scotland 
with her ? She nn'ght indeed return thither, 
and, with good Captain Ebenezer to back 
her, swear that with the eyes of flesh she 
had seen Sidney Latimer. But from a person 
as suspect as she, that might advantage Roy 
McCullocli but little. For Adora knew that 
she was looked upon by the legal authorities 
as being the cause of the quarrel. 

They stood awhile gazing at one another 
uncertainly. Then it was Sidney Latimer 
who spoke first. 

" You love me ? " he began, in a low 
questioning voice, looking at her with sudden 

Adora shook her head sadly. 
"You mistake," she said. 
" Then why are you here ? " he asked, the 
colour fading from his face. " Have you not 

come to find me ? I thought " 

" Yes," she said, looking away to avoid his 

eyes, "I came to meet you. I came to find 
you, but not for the reason you think. I 
have much to tell you. Sit down and listen. 
I ask you to grant me a hearing, if you have 
any feeling for the old time." 

Sidney Latimer sat down. He unhooked 
his sword because it fretted him, and threw it 
with a jangle upon the table. Adora's eyes 
followed it. " Well," she tliought, " at least 
if I hurt him, he will have something else to 
turn to. A soldier easily consoles himself, 
so they say." 

She reached out her hand towards him. 
He did not take it. 

" I must know first," he said, " to whom 
that hand belongs. Is it mine ? " 

" It is my owai," said Adora quietly. 
"It belongs to no man." 

" Then you are not married ? " 

" No." 

" Nor yet engaged to marry any man ? " 


His eyes looked the further question his 
lips did not utter. 

The girl apprehended and answered it. 

" I am here to ask you to come back with 
me, to save a man's life. Two men's lives. 
They are accused of your murder ! " 

" Of my murder ? " The look on Sidney 
Latimer's face was one of genuine astonish- 
ment. " How can that be ? I have written 
repeatedly to my mother. N\\ that she had 
to do w-as to produce my letters, dated from 
the camp of General Wellington." 

The marvel was now as swiftly transferred 
to Adora's face. 

Had Sidney Latimer's mother kept back 
the letters ? At the first blush it seemed 
like it. But nD. She remembered the 
countenance of the woman who had cursed 
her on the road through the Clench of 
Pluckamin. That was not the face of a 
woman who knew that her son was in safety. 

" Then," said Adora, " this much is 
certain. Your mother has not received those 
letters, for two men are to be tried at Drum- 
fern Spring Sessions for your murder." 

" And wlio are these men ? " asked Sidney 
Latimer, looking steadily upon the ground. 
For indeed he knew already. 

"Sharon McCulloch and his son Roy," 
said the girl. And she supported his gaze 
almost defiantly, knowing that it was fixed 
upon her with meaning. 

After this ensued a long time of silence 
before either of them spoke. 

Adora knew what the young man w^as 
thinking. He knew that i\.dora knew. But 
he gave his thought words all the same. 

" Found herself clasping Sidney Latimer round the neck.' 



" And yon b^ive come to Spain for this ? " 
he said, with slow strong emphasis. " Yon 
ask me to leave my profession to return home 
with yon only to save Roy McCulloch's life ? " 

It was Adora Gracie who this time looked 
straight at the young soldier. 

" That is wiiy I have come," she said. 
" For that and for no other reason." 

The face of Sidney Latimer glowed hotly. 
Then the tire faded, till it grew grey and 
pallid. He compressed his lips sternly. The 
Latiuier temper was showing. 

" And suppose I jef use ? " He shot the 
words out brusquely. 

" Yon will not refuse," said Adora, with 
that same look as before, firm and straight 
and confident, which always found its way to 
his heart. " I know you better." 

He jumped np, went hastily to the window, 
then two or three times paced the whole 
length of the chamber. 

" Yes ! " he cried. " Yes ! that is just 
it ! You know that I will not refuse. I 
have to play up to what you think of me. 
And you make me better than I am. Better 
than I want to be. Adora Gracie, I could 
kill the man — the man who took yon from 
me ! Yes, kill him with my own hands ! 
Yet you would make me — you ask me to 
go home to save this very man from the 
gallows he has twice merited ! I will 
not go ! " 

. He flung out his hands with a sudden 
fierce gesture of defiance. 

" I tell you I would not go a mile to save 
Roy McCulloch, that you might marry him ! 
He can swing for me — that is all I have to 

Adora's glance never shifted or weakened. 
She looked him squarely in the eye. 

" Yes," she said tranquilly, " you will come 
back — not because I am going to marry Roy 
McCulloch, nor because I am not going to 
marry Roy McCulloch, but because it is your 
duty as a man to save two innocent men 
from the gallows. I expect it of you. I 
have come here to ask you." 

Adora smiled at him for the first time 
since they had begun to talk together. 

" Ah ! " cried Sidney Latimer, bitterly 
restive, "you think that a smile pays for 
all ! I will not go ! " 

But Adora still held him with her eyes. 
The right that was in the girl's heart mas- 
tered the selfishness in his. A certain fear- 
less elan of manner made it difficult for a 
man to refuse Adora anything. Sidney 
Latimer knew that he was conquered and at 
length he yielded. 

" Well, I will go," he said ; "and if I ask 
you nothing in return, it is oidy because I 
know yon have nothing to give me that I 
would care to accept." 

Even then the bright directness of the 
girl's gaze answered neither "Yea" nor 
" Nay" 

" When I have anything to say of love 
to you or to another man, I will say it," she 
said. " Now I only ask you to do justly for 
your own sake, that the guilt of innocent 
blood be not upon your hands." 

The fierce Latimer blood swung loose as a 
gate on crazy hinges. 

"I tell you if all the McCullochs from 
Dan to Beersheba w^ere hanged as high as 
ever Haman was, it would not lose me one 
night's sleep!" he cried. "Nevertheless I 
will go, because you ask me ! That is how 
I take it. So pray understand that any 
nobility of sentiment is entirely on your 

Adora laughed, and at the ripple of sound 
something heavy and threatening seemed to 
pass away from their colloquy. The old 
captain bustled in as at a signal. 

" Well, now," he said, " have you young 
folk no arranged your affairs yet ? " 

Whereupon, with one breath, they re- 
assured him. And he shook his head with 
mock severity as he pointed out Sidney 
Latimer's blushes. 

" It's aye the woman that's the brazen 
face at sic times and seasons," he declared. 
For Captain Ebenezer had seen the kiss, 
when for a long moment Adora lay un- 
conscious in the young officer's arms. And 
after that, had an angel from heaven come 
down to declare that these two were not 
lovers, the sea-captain would have told him 
that he lied in his throat. Nay, more sacred 
still, he would have put the fact of their ' 
plighted troth in the ship's log, so prone 
are people to see what they expect to see. 



It was some time before even the goodwill 
of General Barnard, and the necessities of 
the case, duly reported in the highest 
quarters, smoothed Sidney Latimer's w^ay 
out of the victorious allied army, now 
watching at the threshold of France. But 
it w^as done ; and when the good ship 
Fortune's Queen sailed from Bilbao, she 
carried with her Adora Gracie and the 



captive of her bow and spear — the ex- 
commaiider of horse, Sidney Latimer. 

The old captain was more pleased with 
himself than ever. The pair had kept their 
secret. And the unflagging zeal with which 
the shipmaster removed Sweatin' Jock White 
and Hillowtoii of the Long Arm out of 
the way of possible lovers' conferences was 
worthy of more success than the manoeuvre 

Indeed, even in the snug cabin of the 
Fortune's Queeti, with the lamp swinging 
aloft and throwing strange bars of light and 
shadow athwart the wall and roof as the 
brig turned and swayed in the Biscay surges, 
the pair found strangely little to say to each 
other. Sidney Latimer held himself bitterly 
wronged in that, without hope of any reward 
to himself, he mast go back to set free a 
successful rival, who, if he were, indeed, 
innocent of one murder, was as certainly 
guilty of another. Not only so, but he 
must not speak of what he knew to Adora. 
Honour forbade him. He could not tell her 
what he had seen and heard on the evening 
when Koy McCulloch had been released from 
prison, or how liis rival had started for the 
house of the murdered man only an haur or 
two before the deed, with threats of vengeance 
on his lips. 

No. His month was closed by the girl's 
very confidence in him. He must go back 
to save the life of a guilty man ! And for 
what ? In order that that man might rob 
him of all that had become most precious 
to him. Sidney Latimer brooded upon the 
thought. He was not of the Adora stamp, 
to whom the doing of one noble action for 
its own sake would afford satisfaction for 
years. His selfishness was of the more 
blatant, masculine kind, though perhaps not 
more really selfish. It was no satisfaction, 
so Sidney told himself, to go back all the 
way to Scotland to do this thing. Any 
pleasure he got out of it was of the dour 
national sort — 

" I said I would do it, and I will ! " 

Nor can it be said that Sidney Latimer 
showed to better advantage when the 
Fortune's Queen began to near home. A 
worse man would have managed to give a 
better impression of himself to a woman he 
loved. Yet no man could have treated 
Adora with more courtesy and reserve in 
the difficult position in which the girl had 
placed herself. And this was all the more 
to Latimer's credit because he was of the 
class set apart — in the land of Scots, a 
Brahman twice born, the thread upon his 

forehead, lord of lands and heritages, patron 
of parochial cures of souls. Adora was the 
outcast daughter of an outcast father. Yet 
Sidney Latimer treated her as though she 
had been the descendant of a hundred earls. 
A young girl, she had gone to a far land to 
seek him, to ask a great service of him for 
the sake of another. Yet, after the first 
outbreak of temper, he acted as if "the 
sacrifice of his prospects had been the merest 
matter-of-course courtesy. 

When they talked at all, it was chiefly 
concerning how his letters, of which he had 
written a good many, had not reached his 
mother. Difficulties of service, the accident 
of camp and transport were urged. But, 
truth to tell, neither of them believed much 
in their own arguments, though the suspicions 
which underlay them were wide as the poles 

Like a man, and knowing his mother's 
jealous nature, Sidney suspected Mrs. Latimer. 
As to Adora — but the time was not yet ripe 
to state plainly what Adora suspected. 

The winds in the Bay were contrary, as 
their manner is ; and as each ship, however 
fast, had to wait for the slowest of her 
convoy, it was the day of long passages. 
Thus it came about that it wanted but three 
days to the date of the opening of the 
Drumfern Sessions when the Fortune's Queen 
made her way up to the quay of Port Glasgow 
and set the captain and his two passengers 
safe ashore. 

Captain Ebenezer's eyes w^ere still tight 
shut as to the relations which existed between 
Adora and Sidney Latimer. These bad 
received a rude shock when first he knew 
of Sidney's quality, and he had promptly 
subjected that young man to the straightest 
of cross-examinations as to his position and 
intentions with regard to Adora— a catechism 
which, considering the circumstances, was sub- 
mitted to with very creditable outward good 
humour, but with much internal restlessness. 

The result, however, was satisfactory so 
far as Captain Ebenezer was concerned. 

"The laddie's a guid laddie an' means 
weel by the lass," he confided to Sweatin' 
Jock White, who, being taciturn, was his 
confidant ; " maistways, he's no like a laird 
ava' — no ava'. For the lairds o' Scotland 
are either wild asses o' the desert, roarin' 
bulls o' Bashan, wi' a' their strength in their 
tails, or else fushionless as frosted turnips in 
a thaw, pokin' their noses here after auld 
Druid stanes and there after Roman camps. 
But this yin's amaist as sensible as if he had 
been a' his life a decent grocer, or even 



'preiiticed in liis jontli to the seafariu' like 
you and me, Sweatiii' Jock." 

The captain was pleased with his success 
as a diplomatist. In his own view he, and 
he alone, had assured Adora's position as 
liady of Lowran. He said as much to Jock 

" You wi' your heid half doon the com- 
panion-way listenin', an' me for a face-to-face 
witness — certes, gin we canna hand him tilt, 
my name's no Ebe^ezer Sinclair. Young 
birkies wi' landed estates o' their ain are no 
to lippen to wi' a guid-looking lass." 

"It's my opinion that this particular lass 
will no be the waur o' the braw landed 
gentleman, or ony ither gentleman," said 
Sweatin' Jock drily. '' Na, she'll send them 
aff with a flee in their lug, estate or no 

And it is quite possible Jock had his own 
reasons for knowing. 

"Noo," said the captain, when at last the 
three stood together on the solid stones of 
the Port Glasgow quay, "understand, I'm 
gaun to see ye hame — baith the twa o' ye ! 
It's no befittin' for a young pair to be 
gallivantin' the country as if they were on 
the road to Gretna. Na, na ; when ye gang 
into Lowran, it maun be wi' the minister's 
l)lessing on your heads, and sax horses in 
front of ye, wi' a postillion on ilka yin. 
iVnd, faith ! auld daft Ebenezer Sinclair wad 
scatter half the profits o' a cruise to the 
Lowran bairns 'gin he could see the sicht." 

So they posted down to Drumfern, with the 
captain in jubilant spirits. He had organised 
the festival games at Lowran, and even settled 
where the bonfires were to blaze, by the time 
the party had reached Sanquhar. And as 
they passed Thornhill, he was deep in the 
architecture of the new house which Sidney 
Ijatimer was to build on his estate. 

"It maun be on the Fairy knowe, there's 
nae doot aboot that," he said with immense 
earnestness of manner, marking the site and 
ground-plan on the back of a receipt for dock 
dues with the remains of a stubby pencil, 
tlie light twinkling all the time in his small 
grey eyes, sunk deep in the puckers of forty 
years among the salt sea winds. 

"The way o't is this," he cried. "The 
Muckle Hoose o' Lowran is a' weel an' weel 
eneuch. But it will simply no do for twa 
young folk. Deed, and it's me that should 
ken, for mony's the time I hae carried the 
letters to your ain grandfather, Maister 
Latimer — and a deevil o' a man he was. 

asking your grace for lettin' oot the word 
aboot yin that's blood-kin to ye. Rut it 
was for that verra reason it was laid on me 
to speer at ye sae carefully — ye ken what 
you an' me had the bit palaver aboot. But 
at ony rate, on the Fairy knowe the new 
Hoose o' Lowran is to stand. Dod, sir, but 
I'm pleased ye agree wi' me. The auld yin 
did weel eneuch for a bachelor man Avi' twa 
auld wives to mix his grog and see that he 
gaed to his bed in time o' nicht. But to be 
plain wi' ye, the Auld Hoose is no in the 
proper situation for a man wi' a young 
family. An' your Honour kens it will tak 
some while for them to grow^ up — wi' a pond 
afore the door for the laddies to be for ever 
faain' into an' frichtin' their mither oot o' 
her reason, thinkin' them drooning ; whilk 
is, of coorse, a moral impossibeelity, for to 
my kennin' Lowran Big Hoose pond is no 
mair than three feet deep, if that. But, a' 
the same, sae muckle water afore the door is 
nane healthy. For grown folk it is little 
maitter, but for bairns, be they never sae 
sturdy on their legs " 

At this point Sidney Latimer, after 
vehement attempts to change the current 
of the captain's meditations, took the 
extreme measure of pleading a sudden faint- 
ness, and asking leave to go outside in order 
to sit with the driver. 

Whereupon Adora, thus basely deserted, 
was willy-nilly instructed upon the conduct 
of married life and the upbringing of a 
young family, and listened to wisdom from 
the lips of a bachelor sailorman, who had 
left home at fourteen and never seen a boy 
since, except when springing responsive at a 
rope's end ! 

This year the spring had come early over 
all the Scottish southland. The leaves on 
the hedgerows, the buds on the ash 
trees, were ushering themselves calmly and 
temperately into a snell, dry, airy world of 
abundant, but not intemperate, sunshine. 
They were, indeed, in no particular haste 
to be born. On the whole, they were more 
comfortable where they were, with their 
overcoats lapped about their ears ; but 
business was business, and must be attended 
to by all things Scottish. 

So it was the first gay flush of this low- 
land spring— the yellow time which brings 
a certain untranslatable gladness into young 
hearts was upon the land — whin-spikes 
surging along the banksides and the lemon- 
yellow of the broom laughing up from every 
clench like the provocation of a spoilt 
country beauty. 



There are, perhaps, times more beautiful 
in Scotland — the rich summer abundance of 
^reen woods and full-fed waters, the autumn 
ling spreading league on purple league ; but 
nothing touches the heart of the country- 
bred boy like the first yellow of the primrose 
and of the daffodil, of the prickly gorse and 
the tall lady-broom, and, above all, that first 
thrilling rush barefoot over the grass of the 
meadow-lands. Something tricksome and 
flaunting doubtless there is about this garish 
gold ; but, nevertheless, the contrast with 
the rich dark breadths of ploughland and 
the chill unsmiling grey of the mountain 
sides makes the yellow time of broom-flourish 
and whin-bloom the gladdest in all the year. 

After passing through miles of this brave 
canary-coloured wood, it was at Thornhill 
that the first whisper of what was before 
them reached the trio in the post-chaise. 
There was a halt of a few minutes at the 
change-house near to Morton Kirk, and 
Sidney Latimer, strolling somewhat apart, 
heard two men call to each other across the 
road, both of them weary with the do- 
nothing of a village afternoon. 

" They'll hae gotten their sentence by noo, 
eh, Robin ? " said one. 

To which, in due course, Robin replied, 
equally glad to have a topic upon which 
something new might be said : " Ay, Gib, 
ye're speakin' ! They'll ken the day an' 
hour o' their latter end by this time, and 
that's mair nor ony o' us can tell ! " 

In an instant Sidney Latimer was upon 

" Of whom do you speak, men ? " he 
cried — " not of the Drumfern Assizes, 
surely ? They do not open till Monday." 

*' Maybes no," answered the man w^ho had 
been called Robin, "since your Honour seems 
to ken sae weel aboot them. But ony way, 
the judges' procession was yesterday morning, 
for my ain een saw it. And the twa 
Galloway men were to be tried for their 
lives this verra day — McGuillams, or 
McCullochs, or McCardles—some o' thae 
auld cut-throat, covenantin', west-country 
names ! " 

The young Laird ran back quickly to the 
inn and told Adora what he had heard. 

" I am going to get a horse," he said, 
"and ride to Drumfern as hard as I 

" I will come with you," she said, taking 
his arm. 

" No," said Sidney Latimer. " I have a 
work to do. I will do it alone." 

She looked long at him, but this time his 
eye did not falter or shrink. It was as 
steady as her own. 

" You may trust me," he said. 

And five minutes afterwards Sidney 
Latimer was galloping down the valley of 
the Nith as fast as whip-leather and spur- 
prick could send his hired hack towards the 
court where Sharon and Roy McCulloch 
were beinor tried for his own murder. 

{To he continued,) 


I Wm 

ONCE I found you in an iris meadow 
Down between the seashore and the river, 
Playing on a golden willow whistle 
You had fashioned from a bough in springtime, 
Piping such a wild, melodious music. 
Full of sunshine, sadness and sweet longing. 
As the heart of earth must have invented. 
When the wind first breathed above her bosom, 
And above the sea-rim, silver-lighted. 
Pure and glad and innocent and tender. 
The first melting planets glowed in splendour. 

There it was I loved you as a lover. 

Then it was I lost the world for ever. 

For your slender fingers on the notches 

Let free more than that mere earthly cadence, — 

Loosed the piercing stops of mortal passion, — 

Touched your wood-mate with the spell of wonder. 

And the godhead in the man awakened. 

Virgin spirit with unsullied senses. 

There was earth for him all new-created, 

In a moment when the music's rapture 

Bade soul take what never thought could capture : 


Just the sheer glad bliss of being buman, 
Just the large content beyond all reason, 
Jnst the love of flowers, hills and rivers, 
Shadowy forests and lone lovely bird-songs 
When the morning brightens in the sea-wind ; 
And beyond all these the fleeting vision 
Of the shining soul that dwelt within you 
(Magic fragrance of the meadow blossom) 
All the dear fond madness of the lover. 
These, all these the ancient wood-god taught me 
From the theme you piped and the wind brought me. 

Was it strange that I should stop the playing? 
Was it strange that I should touch the blossom ? — 
Must (a man's way !) see whence came the music, 
Must with childish marvel count the petals ? 
but sweet were your uncounted kisses ! 
Wild and dear those first impulsive fondlings, 
When your great eyes swept me, then went seaward, 
Too o'ercharged to bear the strain of yearning, 
And the little head must seek this shoulder ! 
Then we heard once more the wood-god's measure, 
And strange gladness filled the world's great-leisure. 



By K. J. Power Berrey. 

Photographs by 0. Pilkington. 

FROM time immemorial Continentallj 
maiiiifacfciired musical instruments 
have been much sought after, and 
liave been liighly prized when obtained, as 
well as highly priced ^'hen sold. 

With stringed instruments this has 
been more especially the case, and until 
the last live or six years Itahan-made 
mandolines have held undisputed sway 
in Engknd. 

Now, however, a change has come 
over this state of things, and gradually 
English-made mandolines have won 
first place in the race for quality of 

The continual complaints encouraged Mr. 
Winder to try his hand at making a mando- 
line, and after first striking out a new line 
for himself and inventing a shape easy to 

Necks" and "tables.' 

fashion, Mr. Winder, after many 
difficulties had been overcome, 
succeeded in " building " a 
mandoline of which the tone 
was excellent. It was not good 
enough, however ; but once the 
initial battle had been fought, 
the rest was comparatively easy 

work. In succeed in<r 


Rosewood ribs. 

tone, make, and finish, and their Italian 
rivals have been forced into the back- 

The difficulty of obtaining a really good 
instrument at a reasonable price is mainly 
responsible for this, and now it is safe to 
say that English-made mandolines ai'e 
known in most English-speaking quarters 
of the world. 

Like most important undertakings, the 
establishment of a mandoline factory com- 
menced in a very small way indeed. In- 
cluded in a small band of enthusiastic 
players, who were always grumbling be- 
cause their instruments were not so 
melodious as they might be, was Mr. 
J. G. Winder, a musician who has been 
playing various instruments from his boy- 
hood, and who for some years had been 
manufacturing banjos and other similar in- 

On the mould in the centre is shown the back of a 
mandolive partly comjdeted. 


the many mistakes were gradually rectified ; 
various parts of the instrument were improved 
upon, and in a few short months Mr. Winder 
turned out a beautiful instrument which suc- 
ceeded beyond his most roseate dreams. 




Its tone was all that could be desired, and when other players heard it they were eager 
to get one, and so the mandoline factory, which I had the privilege of visiting the 

other day, soon 
became an accom- 
plished fact. 

The factory is 

in Kentish Town 

Road, and the 

amount of work 

carried on inside it 

is simply w^onder- 

fnl, for everything 

included in the 

manufacture of a 

mandoline is done 

there — from the 

cutting up of logs 

of wood to the 

making of the 


The wood used consists of rosewood for the back 

and Swiss pine for the belly, or "table," as it is 

known in the trade, and the same for the "neck," 

or finger-board. The Swiss pine, by the way, really 

comes from Bohemia. The rosewood reaches the 

factory in big logs, and leaves it forming the backs 

of mandolines. 

The logs are first split up into a " veneer " of 
about one-sixteentli of an inch in thickness, and this 
is further cut up into ribs about sixteen inches long, about half an inch wide at the 
middle, and tapering to both ends. The back of each mandoline is formed of a number of 
these ribs, varying from twenty to thirty, and in between each is placed a much smaller rib 
of holly-wood, celluloid, or silver, as fancy suggests, which really forms the seam of the ribs. 

This is done on an iron mould, into which the roughly hewn neck has been fastened, 
and as each rib is bent into 
shape and put on the 
mould it is firmly glued 
into place. 

When this has been 
done, and various support- 
ing pieces have been fixed 
just below the ribs upon 
which the table rests, the 
mould is taken away and 
the glue-pot comes into 
requisition again. It is 
freely used until the inside 
of the ribs becomes one 
mass of glue, after which 
a lining of cloth is put 
inside the instrument to 
ensure the secure binding 
together of the whole of 
the ribs. 

Then comes the 
strengthening process. 
Various pieces of seasoned 
wood are laid in along the top, and these, in addition to giving the mandoline greater solidity, 
if one may use that expression, also help to support the table, which, by the way, is made 




from two pieces of wood so beautifully joiued 
that the seam cannot be seen. This is 
perhaps the most difficult part of the work. 
An ornamental lining and the maker's name, 
together with the number of the mandoline, 

'C^ ' 




are then put inside, after which the table is 
put on, and the side and back pieces holding 
this in place are glued into position. 

Next the finger-board, consisting of a thick 
piece of ebony, is fixed on the " neck," and 
afterwards the most 
important process 
in the whole manu- 
facture is entered 

This is the fixing 
of the "frets"— 
the strips of Ger- 
man silver running 
horizontally on the 
finger-board wliich 
denote and mark 
the various notes. 
Grooves are cut at 
set distances, and 
so much care has 
to be taken in the 
cutting that a 
hair's-br ead th 
makes all the differ- 
ence between a 
true and a false 
note. On this 
work Mr. Winder 

specially prides himself, and no instrument 
with a false note ever leaves his place. Into 
these grooves the " frets " are fastened, and 
then these have to be levelled, filed, and 
rounded off, whilst the " neck," from being 
an unlovely piece of wood, quickly becomes 

a graceful, shapely adjunct to the body of 

the mandohne. 

This practically finishes the rough stages of 

the work, and what may be termed fine work 

is alone left to be done. 

The sound hole in the centre of 
the table is next pierced, and then 
a piece of tortoiseshell is cut and 
placed to form a frame, and extended 
to the side so as to protect the table 
from the effects of the plectrum 
when, later on, the mandoline is 
being played upon. This, by the 
way, is only one of the many im- 
provements introduced by Mr. Win- 
der, and has proved exceedingly 
popular, more especially with those 
players who when performing habitu- 
ally scratched the table with the 

. ' Next the head of the instru- 
ment receives attention, and the 
machine arrangement for tuning 
the strings is fitted, whilst a veneer 

of rosewood or some other fancy wood is 

added to the neck. 

After this the inlaying is proceeded with, 

pieces of pearl and tortoiseshell being let in 

on the finger-board and round the sides of 


the table, the instrument being handed to 
the polisher when this work has been com- 
pleted. Under the hands of this workman 
the mandoline soon assumes a handsome 
appearance, and when it leaves him it is 
practically finished. All that remains, in- 



deed, is the fixing of the bridges over which 
the strings pass, and the putting on of the 
tailpiece and the strings. 

Now every "fret" is tested, in order to 
ascertain if the tone of each note is abso- 
hitely correct. If the mandoline "fills the 
bill " in this particular, and the general tone 
of the instrument is up to the high average 
Mr. Winder has set for his mandolines, it is 
then ready for sale. 

I have only given a slight idea of the work 
entailed in the making of mandolines, but 
the difficulties which Mr. Winder had to 
overcome when he first commenced their 
were enor- 

He knew 
very little 
about the 
portion of the 
work, and 
had to put 
his theories 
into practice. 
His experi- 
ments were 
but, as has 
been men- 
tioned above, 
after the first 
mand oline 
had been 
made, the 
work was 
greatly sim- 
plified, for 
then Mr. 
Winder had 
some data to 
work upon. 

who knew the value of good instruments, 
flooded Mr. Winder with orders, and the 
factory was in a few months in full swing, 
the workmen employed being foreigners 
who had been brought up to the business. 
These, however, although excellent work- 
men in their own way, could not be relied 
upon to turn out absolutely perfect work, 
and as one little defect spoils the whole 
instrument, Mr. Winder was now and again 
in the depths of despair. 

English workmen who knew the work were 
not to be obtained, for, as a fact, very few, if 
any, then existed ; and, taking the bull by 
the horns, Mr. Winder cast about and found 


an English workman here and another there 
— men thoroughly acquainted with their own 
trades, one a cabinet maker and another a 
joiner — whom he speedily taught the art of 
mandoline making. 

Thus Mr. Winder obtained a competent 
staff of men, who, taking an interest in the 
work placed before them, set themselves the 
task of becoming perfectly acquainted with 
every little detail. Really the men are a 
little band of enthusiasts, who take so great 
a pride in their work that they have learned 
all about other makers' mandolines, and can 
almost deliver a lecture on the subject. 

They can 
speak oracu- 
larly of the 
models on 
the market— 
there being 
many, good, 
bad, and in- 
different — 
and can point 
out what they 
consider the 
defects and 
wherein these 
defects can be 

Certain it 
is that Mr. 
Winder has 
now deve- 
loped a new 
industry in 
this country 
— a rarity in 
these days 
when every 
week the 
point out tliat 
some country or other has encroached upon 
the preserves of Great Britain and is taking 
orders for goods in the manufacture of 
which this country has always been looked 
upon as pre-eminent — and it is quite refresh- 
ing to find that someone has taken up a 
business for which other countries have 
always been famous, and, by reason of the 
excellence of the work turned out of the 
factory, is proving more than a formidable 
competitor with Continental makers. 

Mr. Winder does not confine his atten- 
tion to mandolines. He also manufactures 
banjos, banjeaurines, guitarras, and the 
ordinary guitar, whilst he has also experi- 




men ted with violins, and has turned out a 
verj fine double bass. One mandoline, 
shown partly finished in the photographs on 
page 808, was being made as a specimen of 
English work. The body, which is fluted, 
and not flat as in the ordinary instrument, is 
made of ebony in place of the rosewood, the 
seams being strips of silver, whilst the table 
and finger-board are one mass of pearl, silver, 
and tortoiseshell inlaid in most delicate and 
artistic patterns. Last year the prize pre- 

sented to the head of the mandoline class, at 
the Guildhall School of Music, was one of 
Mr. Winder's instruments. 

As the mandoline is gaining in popularity 
daily, the sale of the instrument increases, 
and it is pleasant to know that in this 
particular musical industry the Old Country 
has commenced to oust foreigners from 
the position in which they have held 
undisputed sway right up to the past year 
or two. 




Author of ''Outlaws^ 



HE conversation had 
been strictly con- 
fined to petrol for 
the whole of the 
evening, till some- 
one, a propos of 
nothing at 
suddenly went 
at a 
electric cars. 

Gray's wonderful 
non - stop run of 
two hundred miles, on a car that turned the 
scale, accumulators and all, at something less 
than 15 cwt., was fresh in our memories, and 
for a time the pros and cons of electricity 
as a possible rival to petrol were eagerly 

"Gray is a clever fellow," Hamlyn re- 
marked, with the air of a man who has 
made an astonishing discovery, "but the 
last man in the world one would suspect of 
being a practical engineer. Do you know 
that he is a leading light of the Society of 
Psychical Research, an antiquary, and all 
that sort of thing ? Just imagine the mind 
that can evolve such a car as Gray's having 
room for ghosts as well." 

We all admitted the incongruity of such 
companionship in the average mind. But 
Gray had a mind beyond the average. 

" And the worst of it is," Hamlyn con- 
tinued, " he has brought me round to his 
way of thinking, I hardly dare go out on 
my oar for fear of quite inadvertently doing 
something that may set an army of ghosts 
haunting me." 

The eloquent pause which followed this 
startling declaration of faith had the desired 
result. Hamlyn could tell a good story, and 
it was evident that he had one to tell. In 
answer to a dozen eager questions he gave us 
the history of his conversion. 

" About a week before Gray was officially 
timed," Hamlyn commenced, "he told me 
that he had built a small electric car that 
would run for two hundred miles on one 

" Of course, I didn't believe him, and I 
told him so. He just smiled, and said that 

he had been on the point of asking me to 
accompany him on a private trial ; but if 
I wasn't interested, he wouldn't bother me. 

" Next morning at six o'clock I was at 
Gray's house at Hampstead, and there was 
the car standing outside— a little thing, about 
the size of a 4|-h.p. voiturette, with the 
accumulators hidden under the seat. 

" Gray was ready, so was the car, and away 
we went without a moment's tinkering. 

" 'Where to ? ' I asked, as we ghded along 
the North road at a comfortable twenty miles 
an hour. 

" ' York, Carlisle, Edinburgh,' he answered, 
' as far as we can run on one charge.' 

" All that day we travelled splendidly, with 
only two stops of half an hour each — one for 
breakfast and one for lunch. Along the 
clear, straight stretches of deserted high- 
way Gray let her go at anything up to forty 
miles an hour. Through straggling villages, 
over bad bits, and past places supposed to 
be dangerous, for a variety of reasons, we 
travelled decorously. We were in luck that 
day, for whenever we did happen to spot a 
constable, we were jogging along at a steady 
and irreproachable eight. 

" It was striking six o'clock as we passed 
through York, and not bolt, nut, or wire had 
we touched. 

" * How much further ? ' I asked as we 
left the city behind us. 

" * On to the end,' said Gray ; ' there's 
another fifty in her yet.' 

" For another twenty miles the car skimmed 
along like a bird, but bad roads were telling. 
Gray's fifty miles were reduced to twenty. 

" Even on that we might possibly have 
run into some town where we could have 
recharged the accumulators ; but at the 
bottom of the very next hill a loose piece 
brought the record run for an electric car to 
a sudden end. 

" We came out of that loose piece with a 
back tyre as flat as a pancake. 

" A pair of pliers soon removed the cause 
of the evil — a rusty old nail, thin as the blade 
of a knife, twisted like a corkscrew and jagged 
like a saw. 

" With an exclamation of disgust I threw 




it from me. Gray picked it up and examined 
it carefullj. 

" ' A horseshoe nail,' he said slowly. ' A 
hundred years old at least — two, perhaps. 

"'Hamlyn,' he continued, calmly s-itting 
down by the roadside, ' has it ever occurred 
to you that these old nails, for which our 
modern tyres possess so curious an attraction, 
are interesting links with the past — historic 
relics, perhaps ? Now, take this particular 
one, dropped in this very spot perhaps more 
than a century ago. Who knows what 
tragedy or weighty matter of state may not 
have turned upon its lo^ ? Do you remember 
these lines ? — 

' For want of a nail the shoe was lost, 
For want of a shoe the horse was lost, 
For want of a horse the rider was lost, 
For want of a rider the battle was lost.' 

" I did remember having seen the lines, or 
something like them, in a work on tactics 
when I was at Sandhurst. They seemed 
strangely inappropriate just then, the finding 
of the nail being the cause of our trouble. 

" ' Pitch the beastly thing in the brook, 
where it can do no more mischief,' I cried 
impatiently, * and let us see what we can do 
to repair the tyre.' 

" Half an hour's work in the waning light 
carried us on for another mile, when the tyre 
went down again with an ominous sigh. 

"Our second stop was wdthin fifty yards 
of a house, the first we had seen for five 
miles. More fortunate still, a dilapidated, 
groaning sign-board declared it to be an inn, 
by name * The Runaways.' 

"Mine host of 'The Runaways' looked 
surprised at our application for quarters, and 
evidently regarded the car with consternation. 
Being assured that it could neither blow up 
nor set the inn on fire, he consented to 
shelter it in an empty coach-house, the key 
of which Gray pocketed, after we had care- 
fully repaired the tyre and made every 
possible preparation for the morrow. 

" Some men would have been annoyed at 
such an end to a good day's run. Not so 
Gray. He declared that nothing could have 
been more fortunate. Had we finished up 
in a town, the car would have attracted the 
undesirable attention of a repairer, or an en- 
thusiastic amateur at some hotel. Here we had 
the precious secret safe in our own keeping. 
Next he became enthusiastic concerning our 
romantic surroundings— meaning raftered 
ceilings, awkward corners, and break-neck 
staircases in all sorts of unexpected places. 
Finally he took the brute of a nail out of the 

paper in which he had wrapped it and began 
to moralise. 

" Human endurance has its limits ; and as 
I didn't want to hurt Gray's feelings, I 
suggested going to bed, though I wasn't 

" Amongst other elements of romance 
enjoyed by * The Runaways,' was a striking 
lack of ventilation. I opened my window as 
wide as it would go, sat down by it, and 

" The moon rose and shone over miles of 
rolling fell unmarked by sign of habitation. 
Not a sound came from the house or without. 
The silence of the grave seemed to have 
fallen on the whole w^orld. So depressing 
did I find that silence that I determined to 
get into bed, sleepy or not. 

" My hand w^ent into my pocket to find a 
match to light a candle, and closed on some- 
thing strange. By the light of the moon I 
saw that the something was Gray's nail. 
How it came to be in my pocket I could not 

"As I held the nail and w^ondered, a 
distant sound caught my ear. Far away, on 
the road we had travelled that day, a horse 
was galloping furiously. Rapidly it ap- 
proached, and I noticed something else. 
One of its shoes w^as loose. A matter of 
vital importance only could justify such haste 
under such conditions. 

" Soon horse and rider w^ere in view — a 
splendid grey struggling gallantly onward, 
painfully lame though it was in one of the 
hind legs, and on its back such a rider as 
one sees only in a picture or on the stage — 
a facsimile of Dick Turpin just as he used 
to appear at Hengler's, three-cornered hat, 
long coat, top-boots, pistols and all, except 
the mask. 

" Without dismounting, he thundered on 
the door of the inn with the butt of his 
whip. In answer to loud and repeated 
blows there appeared, not the landlord or 
any of the people I had seen about the inn, 
but a man and boy in quaint, old-world 

" A hurried conversation followed. What 
was said, I do not know ; but without hear- 
ing a word, I understood all. Fresh horses 
must be had at once for a carriage now 
approaching the inn. 

" The old man protested and the rider 
threatened, then man and boy disappeared. 
Soon they returned, each leading a raw- 
boned, speedy-looking animal. 

"All eyes turned expectantly down the 
moonlit road, whence came the distant clatter 



'These old nails are interesting links with the past.' 

of wheel and hoof. Through the rolhng 
cloud of dust that shrouded it raced an open 
chaise. Fierce shout and pitiless whip urged 
the two jaded horses into one final effort. 

" AVithin the chaise, half -sitting, half- 
standing, with backward glance glued to 
the road, w^as a woman ; by her side, a man 
who held her hand and pointed to the inn. 
Soon the cause of such desperate haste and 
the girl's agitation appeared. 

" Close upon the track of the chaise, and 
gaining rapidly upon it, followed a four- 

horsed coach. PostiUion and driver urged 
their powerful team forward with voice,, 
whip, and spur. Half out of the window of 
the swaying vehicle leaned a man, shouting 
and gesticulating savagely. 

" That the distracted girl was gowned after 
the fashion of Cinderella at the ball, and as 
beautiful, or that her companion, who leaped 
from the chaise to assist with horse and 
harness, was, like the group of men he 
joined, attired in the style of our great- 
grandfathers, I scarcely noted. An all.-^ 



absorbing interest in the race left room for 
neither admiration nor wonder. 

" The last trace is fastened and the 
buckle adjusted. A bag of uncounted gold 
changes hands, hostlers scatter right and left, 
and the chaise is ofiF. 

" But ere the straining pair can break 
into a gallop, the leaders of the coach are 
all but over the chaise, so furious is their 
unchecked pace. 

" Skilfully the outrider turns his leader to 
the off-side, brings his wheelers into line 
with the chaise, passes it, and throws panting 
team and lumbering coabh across the road ! 

"Scarce have the vehicles stopped when 
from each springs a man, hatred in his eyes 
and naked sword in hand. The girl w^ould 
throw herself upon one, but is held back by 
the people of the inn. 

"Thrust and parry bewdlder the eye of 
the beholder for one breathless moment ; 
then the younger of the combatants goes 
down, a sword driven to the hilt through 
his heart. An agonised scream from the 
struggling girl breaks the deathlike silence 
w^hich falls on combatants and gaping 

"At sound of that soul-harrowing cry 
something slipped from my fingers and fell 
with a rattle on the windows-sill. With that 
strange curiosity concerning trivialities, which 
one so often displays in moments of severe 
mental tension, I felt for the fallen article 
and held it up to the moon. 

" It was the nail wbich had indirectly 
driven us to the shelter of the lonely inn ! 

" Again my eyes turned to the tragedy 
beneath my window. In the one short 
instant of distraction every trace of it had 
vanished. Only the hard w^hite road and 
endless panorama of moonlit fell met my 
bewildered gaze. 

" Had I really witnessed the extraordinary 
midnight scene, or merely dreamt it ? The 
question was still unanswered as I dressed a 
few hours later. Reason assured me that I 
had been painfully wide awake at the time, 
and in full possession of unfuddled faculties. 
Supposing the tragedy to have been enacted 
under the windows of the inn, others must 
have been spectators, or at least hearers, for 
noise enough to awaken the Seven Sleepers 
had accompanied its development. 

" Cautiously I tackled Gray at breakfast. 
' Had he slept well ? ' 

" * Not too well ; he never did in a strange 

" * Heard anything in the night ? ' 

" * No. Had I ? ' 

" With marked attention he hstened whilst 
I told my story, and before I was half way 
through with it I saw that he believed every 
word of it. 

" ' Hamlyn ! ' he said reproachfully, when 
I had finished, ' you selfish beggar ! Why 
didn't you call me ? I've lost the chance of 
a lifetime ! ' 

" ' But do you believe I really saw these 
things last night ? ' I cried. 

" ' Yes, I do believe it,' was the confident 

" ' Then how do you account for it ? ' 

" ' They were re-embodied spirits — ghosts, 
if you prefer the commoner appellation.' 

" ' Is such a thing possible ? ' I asked in 
awe. ' What w^ere they doing here ? ' 

" ' I think I can give you an explanation,' 
Gray answered. ' Perhaps not quite con- 
vincing to the sceptic mind ; still, one 
which should be convincing to a man w4io 
has seen what you tell me you have seen. 
Now, I'm going to have a word with the 
landlord ; don't you speak to him.' 

" In answer to a request for the bill, 
mine host appeared with it. 

" ' Fine old romantic place this of yours,' 
said Gray. ' Any ghosts ? ' 

" * No, sir, I never heard tell of no 
ghosts,' was the reply, uttered wdth just a 
suspicion of contempt. 

" ' Curious name, " The Runaways,'" Gray 

" ' Yes, it's a queer sort of name for an 
inn,' the landlord assented, with a passing 
gleam of interest. ' I have heard tell that 
a young fellow that was running away with 
a young woman was caught here, and that's 
how the house got its name. But there, I 
can't say. It was afore my time, and I've 
been here, man and boy, come Michaelmas, 
thirty years.' 

" Further particulars of the romantic 
episode the landlord could not give. 
Evidently nothing which had ever happened 
before his time had the smallest interest for 

" ' Old numskull ! ' Gray muttered im- 
patiently, as the door closed behind him. 
' If he possessed a grain of intelligence, he 
might have supplied the missing hnk to one 
of the most circumstantial accounts of 
materialisation ever recorded.' 

" ' Now, Gray, the explanation ! ' I cried. 

" ' Well, that is not far to seek,' he com- 
menced, after a pause occupied in lighting a 
pipe. 'You assure me that you actually 
held the nail in your hand during the whole 
time that you were a spectator of the scene 




& M' 



" The younger of the combatants goes down, a sword driven to the hilt through his heart.' 

you have so vividly described. I should say 
that there is very little doubt as to the 
nail being one lost from the shoe of the 
postillion's horse, possibly a century ago. 
Now, note how everything turns on that 
nail. The runaway couple were no doubt 
off to Gretna Green. They are pursued, 
and a horse goes lame. As a last resource 

the postillion is despatched in advance on 
the lame horse, in the hope of securing a fresh 
team. He succeeds ; but, as you saw last 
night, too late. The runaways are overtaken 
by the girl's brother or lover, and the tragedy 
which gives the house its name is enacted.' 

" ' But,' I objected, * why did I alone see 
and hear all that ? ' 



" ' A sequence of favourable circumstances 
brought that about. In the first place, jou 
were on the scene of the tragedy. You held 
the nail, on which so much depended, in 
your hand. Without knowing it, your 
thoughts no doubt reverted to my remarks 
anent its possible history. Some subtle 
connection between your mind and the mind 
of one of the spirits enabled all to materialise. 
You were unwittingly, for the time being, a 
medium, clairvoyant and clairaudient. The 
moment you dropped the nail you lost your 
power. If you are stilly unconvinced, we will 
stay here and try some further experiments 
in this little-understood subject to-night.' 

" Eight or wrong, I declined to test 
Gray's theory further. 

" Half an hour later we were on our way 

back to York, husbanding our scant supply 
of electricity, pushing up the many hills 
encountered, and leaving the car to run 
down, impelled by the momentum of its own 

" Next day we ran south on a full charge. 
Gray carrying the nail, the possession of 
which evidently afforded him greater satis- 
faction than the marvellous running of 
his car. 

" He intends to revisit ' The Eunaways,' 
and give the nail a lengthy opportunity of 
exercising its interesting but uncomfortable 
powers, before bringing the matter of my 
experience before the notice of the Society 
of Psychical Eesearch — an expedition on 
which I have absolutely refused to accom- 
pany him." 


iLfY heart is empty, empty, 

Swept clear of love and pain. 
rU hie me to the Lilac, 
ril woo the Rose again, 
ril wander in the Starlight, 
And lie among the Leaves, 
And dream to the Night-raindrops 
That beat about the eaves. 

My heart is empty, empty. 
Swept clear of love, and You, 
Who stole me from my Lilacs, 
Stole Stars and Lilies, too. 
You stilled the Sighing Forests, 
You broke the Wind's control. 
And I forgot the Sunsets 
When You were in my soul. 

My heart is empty, empty. 
It holds no more of You. 
Oh, enter. Winds and Sunsets, 
Starlight and Rose and Dew. 
Ah, Faithful Ones forgiving. 
You bend to me once more. 
Though you have guessed the secret 
That hides in my heart's core. 



By W. T. Stead.* 

THE last time I saw Mr. Pierpont 
Morgan was in St. Paul's Cathedral. 
It was at the funeral service of 
Cecil Rhodes. Mr. Morgan had arrived in 
London only the previous day, and I hardly 
expected that he would be able to be present 
to pay the last tribute of respect to his great 
predecessor. There he was, however, sitting 
in the most conspicuous stall in the choir, 
and looking down upon the sea of faces 
which filled every nook and 
corner of the vast cathedral. As 
Edward VII. attended as chief 
mourner the obsequies of Queen 
Victoria, so Mr. Pierpont Morgan 
was properly conspicuous when 
the last solemn rites were paid 
to the African Colossus. Cecil 
Rhodes was dead, and Pierpont 
Morgan reigned in his stead. 

Mr. Pierpont Morgan, unlike 
many of the money kings of the 
present day, was born in the 
purple. He was tlie son of a 
famous banker, in the 
line of financial 
succession, an heir- 
apparent from his 
birth, whereas most of 
the money kings, like 
Cecil Rhodes, have 
forced their way to the 
front ranks from the 
outside, as American 
Presidents have made 
their way from log 
cabin to White House. 
Physically Mr. Morgan 
bears some resemblance to Mr. Rhodes, in 
that both were men above the average 
stature and of commanding physique. But 
there the resemblance ceased. Pierpont 
Morgan, although sixty-five years of age, 
is a man of physical vigour and robust 
vitality. Cecil Rhodes died of heart disease 
before he reached his fiftieth year. If Mr. 

Morgan, like Mr. Rhodes, had died before 
he had completed his half -century, his name 
would long ago have been forgotten. Before 
then he was merely a banker in a good wny 
of business, intelligent, trustworthy, witli a 
wide range of interests outside Wall Street. 
But that was all. His present commanding 
position in the world was achieved after he 
had passed his sixtieth year. In this he 
differs from most of his countrymen, whose 

* Copyright, 1903, by the Curtis Publishing Company, 
in the United States of America. 


Drawn from photographs copyrighted hy 
F. U. Adams. 

signal victories have often 
been achieved at an age 
when a European considers 
that his career is only beginning. 

The Achievements of the Geeat 

Mr. Rhodes's great financial reputation 
arose from his skill in amalgamating the 
various diamond companies which now form 
the colossal trust known as the De Beers 
Consolidated Mines. Mr. Pierpont Morgan 
has consolidated nearly every kind of business 
in the world, excepting the mining for 




diamonds, in which he has up to the present 
shown httle interest. 

But whereas Mr. Rhodes used his financial 
amalgamations chieflj, if not solely, for the 
purpose of acquiring political power, Mr. 
Pierpont Morgan, like the proverbial cobbler, 
sticks to his last. His domain is in the 
world of business. His operations necessarily 
involve political questions, but indirectly. 
We have as yet no indication that the 
American money king, w^hen he has con- 
solidated his financial position, will use it 
as a throne from which to influence the 
policy of nations. Mr. Ehodes for many 
years was regarded, even by his intimate 

Pikoto by] 


associates, as a mere financier and million- 
aire. It was only those in his intimate 
confidence who were aw^are of the far- 
reaching designs which he cherished in the 
inner recesses of his secret mind. It may 
be the same with Mr. Pierpont Morgan, 
who may yet carry out on a vaster scale 
projects which, although based on finance, 
will be distinctly political. This, however, 
is merely a speculation. No such horrifying 
idea has yet dawned on the sluggish imagina- 
tion of the Englishman. He is quite suffi- 
ciently scared already by the spectre of 
Pierpont Morgan as the master of the 
financial resources of the world. If he 
were seriously to contemplate the idea of 
Mr. Moro-an following in Mr. Rhodes's foot- 

steps and using his w^ealth for political 
ends, his existence w^ould become a waking 
nightmare. Even as it is, Mr. Morgan 
is regarded in the Old World as the 
uncrowned king of America. His person- 
ality overshadows even that of the master- 
ful occupant of the White House, and 
it struck no one with surprise that Mr. 
Roosevelt did not succeed in bringing about 
a settlement of the coal strike until Mr. 
Morgan intervened and, by inducing the 
operators to consent to arbitration, saved the 
Atlantic seaboard from the imminent horrors 
of a coal famine in the depths of Avinter. 
Mr. Rhodes, it used to be said, thinks in 
continents. But 
his successor, it 
might be said with 
equal justice, seems 
to meditate in 
hemispheres. Mr. 
Rhodes was the 
Colossus of Africa ; 
Mr. Pierpont 
Morgan is the 
Colossus of two 
worlds. With the 
right foot planted 
in Wall Street, the 
left in Capel Court, 
he bestrides the 
Atlantic and pre- 
pares for the 
economic conquest 
of the world. Such 
is, at least, the 
vision of Mr. 
Morgan which 
affrights and fascin- 

es. G. Bain, New York. 


5 ates the imagination 

of dwellers on one 
side of the Atlantic. 
Last summer Mr. Gates declared that Mr. 
Morgan was but in his infancy, and that 
what he has done is nothing to what he 
means to do. His schemes, according to 
Mr. Gates, embrace the entire world. 
Whether this be so or not, Mr. Morgan has 
realised sufficient of his schemes to satisfy 
the ambition of a financial Napoleon. It is 
not the place here to enter with detail into 
the great financial combinations by which 
he has dazzled everybody. The financial 
assistance he has rendered from time t© time 
to the American Government does not differ 
materially from that which the Rothschilds 
have rendered to other Governments. His 
fame broadly rests upon three great achieve- 
ments. The first was the great amalgamation 

Photo hy] 


[G. G. Rain, New Voo'Jc. 



of the railroads, the second the great com- 
bination known as the Steel Trust, and the 
third, and by far the most sensational from 
the European point of view, is the great 
combination of the Atlantic steamship lines. 
Around these three great " things done " 
in the career of the great amalgamator there 
are crowded an infinity of minor under- 
takings, any one of which would 
have made the fortune of an 
ordinary man, but which con- 
stitute a mere background of 
detail important only as showing 
up in broader relief the great 
achievements of his life. I shall 
not trouble the readers of this 
sketch with elaborate statistics 
as to the number of pounds 
controlled by this or that com- 
bination which Mr. Morgan has 
brought into being. If, as I 
have said, Mr. Morgan meditates 
in hemispheres, the figures of 
his financial operations need to 
be stated in figures which are 
usually reserved for describing 
the distances between the fixed 

Morgan's Nine-Billion- 
Dollar Kingdom. 

People talk a great deal about 
millions, but none of us realises 
what is a million, much less a 
billion. Even the possessor of 
a million has but a vague 
realisation of the amount of his •■ 
investments. To attempt a mr. morgan'! 
catalogue of all the enterprises 
which Mr. Morgan has touched 
with his Midas finger would 
occupy all the space of this article, and 
the only effect of a rapid summary of all 
the capital of the various trusts and com- 
binations with which Mr. Morgan has been 
concerned would be to confuse the mind 
by a vast jumble of figures. What with 
millions here and millions there, and billions 
round the corner, the reader feels as 
bewildered as Alice in Wonderland. He is 
hopelessly lost. He acquires only a vague 
sense of vast resources all centring in Mr. 
Morgan's office in Wall Street and stretching 
out to infinity. Suffice it to say that, 
according to the statement current at the 
time when Mr. Morgan intervened to settle 
the coal strike, the associated capital of the 
enterprises with w^hich he was connected in 
one shape or another was stated to have 

mounted up to £1,800,000,000, a sum which 
is easily written down on papei', but whose 
full meaning transcends the human imagina- 
tion. To invert Mr. Carlyle's phrase con- 
cerning the man who owns sixpence being 
the master of the world to the length 
of that sixpence, Mr. Morgan's monarchy 
and mastery may be measured by the 


From the water colour sketch by Otto Bacher. 

£1,800,000,000 over which he exercises 
more or less control. That may be regarded 
as the Hmit of his kingdom. 

It is not generally believed that Mr. 
Morgan is himself a very rich man, when 
compared with such a Croesus as Mr. Rocke- 
feller. As one of his friends declares, if he 
is allowed to boss the show, he does not care 
who gets the money — a statement that is 
true only with limitations. That he is a 
multi-millionaire in his own right is, of 
course, admitted ; but the millions over 
which Mr. Morgan has the right of owner- 
ship are as nothing compared with the 
millions he is able to influence by the ascen- 
dancy which he has obtained over the imagi- 
nation of mankind, and the confidence with 
which he is regarded by the millionaires of 



London and New York. Just as the German 
Emperor is king over the comparatively 
small area of Prussia, but possesses more or 
less sovereign rights over the wider area of 
the German Empire, and is able by virtue of 
his alliances to control the whole naval and 
military resources of Austria- Hungary and 
Italy, so Mr. Morgan, from the nucleus of 
his own fortune as a banker, exercises 


over other fortunes power in very much 
the same way as that wielded by the German 
Emperor in varying degrees over different 

A Comparison with the German Kaiser. 

If the position of Mr. Morgan resembles 
that of the German Emperor in the varying 
degrees of control which he exercises in the 

one case over territory and in the other 
case over capital, there is also considerable 
similarity between the two men. Yet, if 
current report may be believed, the Kaiser 
was considerably disappointed in Mr. Morgan, 
owing to his lack of interest and total 
indifference to such a phenomenon as 
the growth of modern Socialism. 

"Try as I could," the Kaiser is reported 
to have said, " his 
conversation failed 
to reveal to me 
that he had any 
clear comprehen- 
sion of the vast 
liarmonies and con- 
flicts of the com- 
mercial universe. I 
was amazed to find 
him not well in- 
formed regarding 
the historical and 
development of 
nations. His politi- 
cal economy leaves 
him unconcerned re- 
garding Socialism, 
which undoubtedly 
will soon consti- 
tute the most 
stupendous question 
everywhere. Mr. 
Morgan confessed 
that he had 
never been suf- 
ficiently interested 
to study into ex- 
actly what Social- 
ism means." 

Although the 
Kaiser has feted 
Mr. Morgan almost 
as a brother 
monarch, he has 
always regarded 
him somewhat ask- 
ance. Some two 
or three years ago, 
meeting a party of 
French tourists in Norway, the Kaiser 
expressed grave misgivings as to the im- 
palbable, unassailable power which Mr. Morgan 
might exercise in the control of the mer- 
cantile marine of the world. Mr. Morgan's 
exploit in securing the lion's share of the 
trans- Atlantic shipping was not calculated to 
diminish the uneasiness with which he is 
watched by his contemporary sovereign. 



The old saying of Frederick the Great that 
there could be no war between England and 
Prussia, because it was impossible for a lion 
and a whale to fight, as they are creatures of 
different elements, may be applied to this 
case, for it is still more impossible for the 
Kaiser, with his millions of trained soldiers, 
to fight Mr. Morgan, who dwells in the 
empyrean of finance. The men are quite 
sufficiently akin in temperament to under- 
stand each other. Both are distinctively 
men of the century, vibrating in keenest 
sympathy with all the ^citements and sen- 
sations of their time. Both are active and 
energetic, constantly in evidence, touching 
life at a thousand points. The Kaiser is 
always making speeches, and Mr. Morgan 
makes none, but both live continually in the 
glare of publicity. The fierce light which 
beats upon a throne in Europe is nothing 
to the light of publicity which the American 
newspaper throws upon the master of many 
millions. The Kaiser is ambitious, and his 
ambitions point, like those of Mr. Pierpont 
Morgan, to the acquisition of power upon 
the sea. But it is probable that the older 
man entertains vaster schemes than any of 
those in which the Kaiser dares to indulge. 
The Continental monarchies are confined 
within their rigid limits, and the range of 
their activity for good or for evil is neces- 
sarily very circumscribed. In the world 
of finance the money king knows no 
frontiers. He can roam at will over the 
whole planet. 

But therein, in the absence of limitation, 
is the great temptation which may yet lure 
Mr. Morgan, as it has lured others, to de- 
struction. When Verestchagin exhibited his 
pictures of the retreat from Moscow, at 
Berlin, the Kaiser is said to have remarked 
to the artist, after going through his gallery : 
" And yet, notwithstanding this, men dream 
of universal empire ! " Therein the Kaiser 
put his finger upon one of the sins which 
most easily beset human beings when from 
any cause they are exalted above their 
fellows. Swelled head was the malady to 
which both Napoleon and Cecil Rhodes 
succumbed. Happy will be Pierpont Morgan 
if he escapes from the delusion which has 
been the ruin of all world - conquerors. 
Mr. Rockefeller is credited or debited with 
having made the remark that " Mr. Morgan 
had bitten ofi^ more than he could chew%" 
and financiers, like empires, may perish of 

At present, however, the star of Mr. Pier- 
pont Morgan appears to be in the ascendant. 

As a millionaire friend of his remarked : 
" Mr. Morgan's friends are more numerous 
than man ever had before. He makes money 
for them all " — which is, indeed, a very solid 
foundation for friendship, gratitude, and 
loyalty. Looked at from that distance which 
lends enchantment to the view, Mr. Morgan 
appears in a much more attractive light than 
some of his great compeers in the world of 
finance. He has striven for peace, for the 
consolidation of mutual interests which were 
endangered by ruinous rivalry. He has 
never been a wrecker, but has evolved from 
the wreckage of warring interests a great and 
prosperous combination which so far has 
never deceived its shareholders or oppressed 
the public. 'Tis excellent to have a giant's 
strength, but tyrannous to use it like a 
giant, and so far Mr. Morgan has not been 
tyrannous. Temptation, however, is always 
present with power. Absolute sovereignty 
has usually depraved its possessors, and it is 
difficult to contemplate with serene com- 
placency the ascent of any human being to a 
position in which his will or caprice may be 
the ruin of millions of his fellow-men, who 
would neither have chance of remedy nor 
hope of appeal. 

A Good Instance of the Morgan 

To observers in England, Mr. Morgan's 
attitude in business affairs is as eminently 
reasonable and conciliatory as his personal 
manners are brusque, if not rough. His 
deahngs with the British Government with 
regard to the Atlantic traffic supply ad- 
mirable illustrations of what may be called 
the Morgan method. He first secured 
his position so as to be ready for war 
or peace with the companies that were left 
out of the great combine. Then, finding 
that the British Government was disposed to 
back up his rivals, he promptly hauled down 
the signal for battle and entered into an 
arrangement with Great Britain with which 
both parties profess themselves to be entirely 
satisfied. He had previously disarmed the 
opposition of the German Emperor by the 
arrangement which he made with the two 
great German steamship companies. If Mr. 
Morgan were to die now, it is possible that a 
future historian might idealise him into the 
great peacemaker of his time, the man who, 
like a more fortunate Falkland, was con- 
tinually "ingeminating peace." His great 
maxim to unite in order to conquer, and its 
related saying that competition is criminal 
which deprives shareholders of their divi- 




clends, might lead liim after a time to be 
regarded as the John tlie Baptist of a new 
and happier era, in which co-operation will 
take the place of opposition, and the social 
millennium will dawn upon the world. 

That Mr. Morgan sees himself in this light 
is very much to be doubted. He is a shrewd 
business man, a banker who saw the capital 
of his friends and customers wasted by a 
policy of cut-throat competition on the part 

of the various industrial concerns in which 
they were engaged. In order to check this, 
he came forward as the advocate of the 
principle of combination and co-operation, 
and so far he has unquestionably achieved a 
great success. He was the first banker who, 
leaving his counting-house, went to his 
clients and, instead of merely consenting to 
receive and invest their money, suggested to 
them methods by which they could employ 



it to better advantage than thej were doing. 
It was he who approached Mr. Carnegie and 
induced him to make the deal which, led to 
the foundations of the great Steel Trust. 
He has been described as a glorified com- 
mission agent, the greatest in the world, who 
is constantly on the look-out for business, 
not for the sake of money so much as for 
the joy of action and the consciousness of 

Mr. Morgan is distinctly a survival of 
the old-time Americans. He is said to be 
a thorough-going American of the newest 
school, believing in the Americanisation of 
the' world, but he is almost as much 
European in his culture as American. 
Though he was born in 1837, in Connecti- 
cut, he finished his university career in 
Germany. He went into business about the 
same time as Lincoln 
was elected to the 
Presidency of the United 
States, and soon estab- 
lished his reputation as a 
man of great intelligence 
and financial ability. Ten 
years later he became a 
member of the firm of 
Drexel, Morgan and Co. 
In 1878, Drexel dropped 
out, and Mr. Morgan 
became head of the firm 
of J. P. Morgan and Co., 
in London and New 
Ybrk. Although he has 
handled almost every 
kijnd of business, and is 
solidly interested in all 
mianner of undertakings 
all over the world, he has stuck to his own 
profession. He is a banker and a commission 
agent. He is at the head of railroads, 
steamship companies, and all manner of 
enterprises, but he is personally concerned 
with the management of none. In England 
he has not yet made any appearance in the 
political arena, and no one knows what view 
he takes of the questions which divide 
English parties. In the United States his 
only effective intervention, so far as it was 
visible, arose when he used his influence, and 
used it decisively, in favour of the gold 
standard. This, however, might be regarded 
as a legitimate exercise of money power in 
politics, the financier employing his resources 
in order to secure the defeat of a party 
which threatened to depreciate the value of 
his securities. This principle, however, 
might carry a man very far. 

Pencil sketch hy W. R. Leigh. 

The Legitimate Direction of his 

In foreign politics and international relations 
Mr. Morgan has not yet loomed before the 
world as one of the new Great Powers which 
must be reckoned with in the redistribution 
of territory and the making of war. Various 
rumours are current as to his intentions in 
South America, and his interests in the 
Trans- Andean Railway which is to connect 
Valparaiso with Buenos Ayres may lead him 
to take as keen an interest in South American 
politics as Mr. Ehodes took in the politics 
of South Africa. This, however, is doubtful, 
for South America can never be more than 
a mere subsidiary interest in the vast sum of 
Mr. Morgan's enterprises. But if money 
kings are subject to the same laws as those 
which govern other sovereigns, nothing will 
be more easy than for 
him to find himself in- 
volved in a dispute in 
some outlying region in 
which he has only a 
minor interest. This 
might compel him to use 
all his resources to vindi- 
cate his position, though 
the game might not be 
worth the candle. 

The great political role 
which seems reserved 
for Mr. Morgan, if he 
lives and his star does 
not begin to wane, would 
seem to be the promotion 
of a great combine be- 
tween the British Empire 
and the American 
Republic. Very few men are better placed 
than he for undoing the results of the folly 
of George III. Mr. Morgan has already 
taken in hand the financial annexation 
of the Old Country. He is behind the 
great Electrical Trust which is endeavouring 
to control the street railways of Great 
Britain, and for that end is waging war 
against the development of municipal 
socialism. He aspires to supply London 
with quick transit, and is believed, probably 
without reason, to be behind a great move- 
merit for transforming the Upper Thames 
into a gigantic dock. As he bought up the 
British steamships, and then entered into 
an arrangement with the British Government 
for the joint working of the remaining 
vessels, so he may go on buying up con- 
trolling interests \n British and Colonial 
railways until at last be is in a position to 



compel the Governments at London and 
Washington to enter into a combination 
corresponding in the political sphere with 
those which he has already engineered in 
the world of finance. A combine of the 
whole English-speaking world would be an 
enterprise worthy even of the American 

It is a curious illustration of the extent to 
which the personality and achievements of 
Mr. Morgan dominate the English imagina- 
tion, that the English papers some time ago 
published a curious story to the effect that 
Mr. Morgan, wh